Condemn the Free
by IceEckos12
Summary: The end of the world is coming, and it all started with the disappearance of the United States of America.
1. Ground Zero: 1

**Series: Condemned**

**Title: Book 1: Condemn the Free**

**Summary: The end of the world is coming, and it all started with the disappearance of the United States of America.**

**Pairings: FrUK, implied RusAme, OC/OC pairings. **

**Rating: T, may go up. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

_August 22__nd__, 2000_

_Hello._

_If you're listening_ _to_ _this_,_ either I'm dead or you just stumbled on one of my best kept secrets—somehow. I don't know how, and I don't _want _to know. _

_Either way, you're going to know the truth. _

_If I'm dead, it means that the worst case scenario has come to pass, and you're going to need everything you can get to prepare. In the following message, I've included everything you need to know about the growing threat. If you just stumbled upon this and I'm alive, then…well…I suppose this is either a warning or simply a super-heroic tale of kick-ass!_

_Now, where should I start? _

_Let me think…I guess the beginning should work. _

_My name is Alfred F. Jones. I also am the soul—and by soul, I mean walking, talking, hamburger-chowing essence—of the United States of America. _

_And here is the story of the end of humanity. _

_2020_

America strode down the hall, a small frown on his normally smiling face. He carefully straightened the cuffs on his uncomfortable, crisp suit and sighed.

There was only one way to describe the way America was feeling, and it wasn't a normal emotion for the usually carefree nation. It was _troubled. _

America was generally an optimist; one who always found the bright side of things. He smiled in the face of adversity and laughed in the midst of disparity**. **He managed to remain upbeat even when his economy was making him sick every other week and the House and Senate continued pulling him in two different directions. He put on a happy façade every time the other countries insulted him behind his back. He twisted every dark emotion and put it in a small, secluded corner in the back of his mind. There was positively _nothing _that could bring him down, even as he was slowly falling apart inside. And yet…he was troubled.

That was _troubling, _the feeling of being troubled. America decided that it was very unpleasant, the thought of having to worry more than he should. Sure, he worried over the economy, the thought that Russia or China might attack him, global warming, oil running out, and so, so many other things…but those could be ignored, when it came down to it, in the interest of a night out or a nap. However, he couldn't ignore _this_. After all, it's one thing when the legislative branch is being all pissy—_that _was an incontrovertible fact of existence for Alfred—but it's another when you're sure your boss is a psychopath.

Sure, he'd had some interesting presidents before (One simply had to ask him about Andrew Jackson, and even "Silent Cal" Coolidge had ridden a _mechanical horse_ in his room for _exercise_) but nothing like _this. _The president had put up a sickly sweet façade (not unlike America's own), but not for the protection of others. He'd put it up for power, for the top spot. The man promised a brighter future, like so many others before him, and he urged his fellow citizens to focus on what would be, rather than what was. 'We will wash away the darkness of _today_,' the man had said, 'For a brighter tomorrow.' Through this, he'd convinced a lot of people. America himself would've been convinced had he been a normal human—but he wasn't. After three hundred years, America had learned to look through deception and see any human's true nature—now only other countries could fool his eyes. And his new president, he had to admit, was _good, _but he'd seen it. The evil malevolence behind the kindly figure; the wolf in sheep's clothing.

But what could he do?

He couldn't do _anything, _especially since the president had won by a landslide; he was _that popular. _America had practically no power in that respect, no matter how high up in the system he was. As much as he hated it, he couldn't stop that man from becoming president; that _was _what he'd fought for so long ago, freedom of speech, and he couldn't take it back now. What the people wanted, the people would get.

The guards nodded to him as he walked past, and he acknowledged them with a small wave of the hand. He recognized most of them. However, he could pick out a few new recruits—he didn't know their faces and they stopped him as he walked by.

"Sir, this is a high clearance area. We'll escort you outside now."

America sent him a glare and slipped his hand into his pocket, searching for his ID. Once he found his wallet, he flipped it open and shoved the ID into the newbie's face.

"You see this?" he snarled, not in the mood to deal with some impertinent rookie. "My name is _Alfred Fucking Jones, _and I have higher clearance than you ever will."

"Alfred! No tormenting the new guards!"

He turned and saw a slight woman carrying a tray of tea walking toward him, looking at him with an admonishing, somewhat drained expression. It was Lucille, one of the maids. She'd been there for almost two years; she was a pretty girl, with bright brown eyes and black hair. Though she didn't know that Alfred was America, she did know that he was something special; after all, Alfred had come to the office almost twice a month for as long as she could remember.

America dropped his hand and let out a soft growl before stuffing the ID and wallet back into his pocket. He turned to fully face the woman. "Fine, fine." Then, he turned to the guard (who was looking a little terrified) and said, "You're lucky she was there to protect you, buddy."

Yes, being troubled was troubling; it bothered him and then he would take it out on everyone else. That poor guard hadn't deserved his anger—after all, he was just doing his job, and BAM! Here comes some fat-ass biting his head off! Oops. Ah, well.

"You're here to see Mr. President?" Lucille asked, ushering America away from the trembling guard. "Come on; I'm bringing some tea to him anyway."

America nodded, still distracted. "Yeah, okay."

They walked in silence, and no one else bothered them. Perhaps it was because of America's intimidating aura. Perhaps it was because of the figure of the maid walking next to him. Or perhaps it was because there were no more newbies in their path. In any case, they were left completely alone.

They were silent as they walked, which left America to his thoughts again. How was he going to treat this president? Would he call him out on his farce or would he let the president be? Would he attempt to mess with the president's decisions, or would he trust the people's judgment and leave them alone? What if the president had bad intentions for his country—what would he do then? He had to go about this carefully, or things could get messy. This worried him even more; he _never _did things carefully (ask England or Canada), so this problem HAD to be _big_.

What if…hmm…hey, this could work! Okay, so at first he'd be all nice and oblivious and stuff, and then when he got closer to the president he'd start telling him his real opinions like any hero would! All right!

America pumped his right fist in the air, and let a grin spread across his face.

"Finally figured out what was bothering you so much?" Lucille asked, sounding slightly amused. He jumped, startled, before turning his bright smile on her.

"Yeah, I got it!" He chirped happily. Then, he slyly interjected, "So, what do you think of the president?"

Lucille smiled at America, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "He's very kind and generous. So polite, too. I think he'll be good for this country." Then, she frowned, staring at the ground with quiet, troubled eyes before looking up and inquiring, "Alfred…what do _you _think of Mr. President?" She asked almost like she _knew _that America didn't trust his new boss.

America nibbled his lip apprehensively, unsure of how much to tell her. On one hand, if he mentioned his suspicions and she shared them with the wrong person…her life could be in danger. On the other hand, if he didn't tell her, would she not go on blindly trusting the president, like a lamb being led to the slaughter? He couldn't let that happen.

"Well, Lucy…" He paused, trying to decide how to put what he wanted to say into words. "I think…he's going to do what's best for this country. I also think…" His thoughts were a mess. "He might not be as kind as we think he is."

Lucille tilted her head in confusion, brown eyes searching his solemn face. "What do you mean?"

Luckily, he was saved from having to answer by the appearance of the mahogany door in front of them. The words _President's Office_were stamped across the middle in golden letters.

"Why don't I take this in for you?" America turned to Lucy and smiled, reaching forward to gently ease the tray from her hands. "You should take the rest of the day off, okay?" When the young maid hesitated, he grinned reassuringly. "Please. You've been working your ass off for the past few weeks. No one's going to yell at you. I'll sort out Mr. Pres."

Lucille looked hesitant for a couple more seconds, but her decision was made for her as her jaw slackened, and her mouth widened into a loud, wide yawn.

"O-O-O-O-kay." Lucille managed through her enormous yawn. "I-I-I-If you insiiiiiist…"

America couldn't help but be amused as the young maid stretched, arching her back almost catlike, and began to stumble tiredly down the hall. The poor thing was being so overworked, he mused, balancing the tray in one hand. Politicians never did bother to actually wonder how their beverages magically appeared before them.

Speaking of politicians…

America took a deep breath, and walked through the door.

The first thing he noticed was the line of terrified maids, butlers, and other White House staff lining the walls. Tall, muscular guards in black suits and sunglasses (Men in Black wannabes?) stood at attention on either end of the line, guns ready to fire if necessary. Their eyes were currently trained on him.

The next thing he noticed was that the chief of White House Staff, Jacob Lew—or as Alfred affectionately called him, 'Jack'—was standing in front of the president's desk with a slightly alarmed look on his face. Perhaps that was an understatement; the man was almost terrified.

And, of course, there was the president himself, sitting in front of his chief of staff, a smug look on his face.

They all turned to look at America as he entered the room. Under the stare of a dozen relieved/frightened people he knew and a couple fiery glares from the guards, he froze. Sure, America liked the spotlight, but these people were all…

…Well, damn. He mentally scrapped his original plan, and decided to start bullshitting his way through this.

"Um…Hi?" Smooth. _Very_ smooth. "I brought…drinks."

_"Alfred." _Jacob sighed in relief, body sagging as pent-up tension was released. "Thank God you're here." America was about to respond when a cold, hard voice cut in.

"I believe _I _am the president, so _I _shall do the talking." The president of the United States stood up, and stalked toward his suddenly confused country. "Who are you? Give me a good reason why I shouldn't shoot you."

Aw. What, no sickly sweet mask to entertain him with?

"Because…" America scratched his head, leaning to make sure the drinks didn't spill all over his already irate boss, "I brought drinks and cookies?" He held out the tray as a peace offering, feeling slightly satisfied at the man's perplexed expression; he was most likely not expecting the simple yet ingenious answer. "And because it'll look bad when it gets to the press."

The president smirked. "I could call it an assassination attempt."

America returned the expression. "With more than a dozen witnesses saying it isn't?"

"What if I killed them, too?" The question appeared to be mainly out of curiosity, but there was a slight edge to its tone, as if the president was sincerely considering the option.

Jacob and the others gasped, but the president silenced them with a warning look. The frightened people sent Alfred desperate glances.

This man, his _boss, _wouldn't shoot more than a dozen people, would he? The guy was probably just joking. After all, even though he didn't seem very nice, the guy had fooled the nation! There _was_ something off about him, but he wasn't that good of an actor. Was he?

But…

"These people have families. Those families are going to look…and they'll track the deaths back to you." America grinned.

"'Terrorist group conspiring against the President'. That's a good article title, don't you think?"

Damn, he was good. But America didn't come to have an intelligence battle against his boss—especially one hypothesizing about the deaths of innocents (Actually, this conversation had gone from 'a mild nuisance' to 'sick' in about five seconds). He had come to explain just who—and what—he was.

"Yeah, um, right. I didn't come to chat about how you should cover up killing dead people." The sentence didn't quite flow. America frowned slightly. "Yo, boss man. I need to talk to you for a couple seconds." With a surreptitious look at the other people, he leaned in slightly, as though they were schoolboys conspiring together. "Y'know. _Alone." _

The president took a startled step backwards, a disgusted look curling his lip. It was obvious he did not want to mix with _rabble _such as the apparent teenager. Then, his eyes lit up slightly with surprise, and the carefully formed mask was replaced. "Well, just as I was telling all these people here…You're _fired. Permanently." _For a second, his true emotions showed on his face: disgust and a bit of condescending hatred. "So, no more of this…'boss man'." The way he said the words made them sound as though they were revolting curses.

"Sorry, buddy." America actually laughed at the stunned expression on the presidents face, then let out a huff of surprise as the drinks nearly spilled everywhere. He handed the tray to an older maid leaning against the wall, before turning back to the fuming man who was _supposed _to be his boss. "I'm sort of _permanently unfireable." _He withdrew his ID again, grinning smugly as the president sputtered with surprise. "Like I said, we need to talk. _Alone."_

The president, slightly red in the face, stared at America furiously. His sharp, diamond-hard eyes flickered angrily onto the perpetually happy face, trying to find a crack in the perfect mask, in the loud, exuberant laugh. He had always considered himself a mastered actor, one who had no match, no rival to speak of. He was simply that good; he was not boasting or bragging. It was the statement of a simple fact. No matter how much he despised the pathetic people around him, chattering and whining and complaining about their silly little lives, he managed to keep up his mask.

And yet this…_boy, _this teen, was managing to best him!

He caught the teen's innocent blue eyes in his own dark brown ones, despising the naïve, trusting gaze. Perhaps anyone else would've supposed that this was how he always acted, that this foolish _boy _was nothing more than that; a foolish boy.

But a master of disguise always knows how to recognize another master of disguise. And that was exactly why he hadn't even tried to act as the generous man he had portrayed.

The blue eyes suddenly flashed with a sharp, dangerous intelligence, the smiling lips pulling into a smirk.

And then, just as quickly, it disappeared. But the President had seen, and this…whoever he was, knew it. It had been completely intentional.

His mind was quickly made up.

"Leave us." The president waved the guards away, ignoring their slightly surprised faces. "Do not come in unless I call you." When they froze for just a second, torn between protecting their employer and obeying the order, the man barked a short but powerful, _"Leave!" _

They darted out, the staff close behind, Jacob pausing to send Alfred a comforting look before he closed the door behind them.

It was so quiet. Minutes that seemed like hours were spent sizing each other up. America was the first to shatter the silence.

"So I guess you're wondering who I am." America began, scratching the back of his head, and letting out a soft laugh.

The president narrowed his eyes and walked around the desk to lower himself into the plush black chair. "I suppose I am. Now," He leaned forward, folding his hands in front of his mouth. "_Talk."_

So America did.

He launched into an explanation of who he was—and more importantly, _what_ he was. He showed the president the letter signed by all of his former bosses verifying his identity, he explained his super-strength and ties to the nation. Just as he had done for every president before, America explained his story.

And the president sat there and listened…believing every word. Of course he did. He knew there was something special about this child…

"Are there more of you?" He interrupted the tale America was winding with a suspicious glint in his eyes.

"No. Just me, since I'm the most powerful country right now." America didn't fully trust this man—he was taking a risk just explaining who he was. If this man truly had malevolent intentions, what if he got his slimy hands on Mattie or Iggy? Alfred would never forgive himself if they got hurt because of him. _Either_ of them.

Admittedly, telling the president that he was the country was his way of gaining immunity. After all, every American felt some connection to their country, and would not try to hurt them intentionally. Of course not—that was patriotism for you.

"I see…" The president paused, his eyes searching for any chance of a lie. There was a tense silence, as America waited for the man's verdict. "I believe you."

He let out the breath he'd been holding, and laughed, reaching to scratch the back of his head. "Wow, you really had me going for a second! For a second I actually thought I'd have to try and _prove _it to you!"

"I believe you," The man repeated. America frowned and lowered his hand, suspicious by the man's dark tone. "Super strength? _Immortality? _Do you _know _what we could do with a whole _army _of you?"

The country took a step backwards, heart sinking in his chest. He knew _exactly _what they could do if they had a whole army of him. "I-I really don't like where this is going. How about I leave and let you think this through properly—?"

"Oh, I've thought it through," The man rose to his feet, eyes glinting with the promise of _power _and enough strength to take down the whole world. "We could take the world. We could hold the world's might in our grasp. Think of it! You would not want for anything. World powers would bow down at our feet! Think of it!" He was maniacal now, voice spinning a tale of great majesty. "China! Russia! England! The world could be ours!"

And for a second, America wanted it. To have the other nations trembling beneath him; they would no longer think of him as the fool, the buffoon of the world. They would regret the day they ever called America—

No.

_No. _

He couldn't do that.

"No…I can't."

Not even to them.

It was so…_unheroic._

"You'll have to figure out your own path to world domination. I'm not it, bub."

America stood firm in his decision, ignoring the little voice in his head that was telling him to seize the offer. He'd promised himself a long time ago that he would never intentionally abuse his power, and that particular promise he had kept. He never purposefully tried to tell another country to do something just because he was stronger.

No matter how tempting it was.

There was a tense silence, where the president calmly observed the resolute country standing before him. _He will not bend, _the former realized, and let out a soft, almost apologetic sigh. Both America and his president recognized it as fakery. "Very well," The president removed a bright red button from his pocket. "I suppose you leave me no choice."

He pressed the button.

The guards burst into the room, guns ready to fire. The muzzles swung wildly around the room, searching for the threat; they settled on America, who gave the guards a wide-eyed stare. When the room was secure—the only threat they could see being the young country—they turned back to their boss. The leader (or, at least, the one who spoke for all of them) nodded his head, and said, "Awaiting your orders, sir."

The president's next words sent a chill of alarm through everyone else in the room. "Tranquilize it and tie it up—don't hurt it. We need the specimen alive…and unharmed. Oh, and use the strongest tranquilizer you have…I'm guessing we'll need every last ounce."

One of the guards drew a tranquilizer gun and shot it at the stunned country. Obviously he had expected one standard-issue dose to be enough, contrary to the president's warning.

Poor sap.

It was purely reflex; America caught the dart between his gloved fingers, blinking slightly in surprise—he couldn't quite believe that this was happening. The guard let out a shout of astonishment at the country's inhuman reflexes, which faded into a painful yelp; America had thrown the dart back at the source, striking the neck. The guard crumpled to the ground, downed by the strong anesthetic coursing through his system.

The others froze, all still shocked by the feat. America took advantage of that, spinning around and ripping the door off its hinges as though he was tearing tissue paper. He tossed the door at the cluster of guards and broke into a run, not stopping to see the damage he'd done.

The president recovered first, his face purpling with rage. "After him!" He sputtered, "Don't let him escape!"

"_Sir!" _

America turned the corner quickly, looking over his shoulder; no guards seemed to be following him. Apparently they'd all been slightly afraid of the door he'd thrown.

_I've always wanted to try that, _America thought, grinning and unconsciously slowing his pace. His mind no longer perceived a threat; he saw no reason to run anymore.

That was America's biggest mistake. Common sense said America should've immediately run out of the building and texted Canada, England, France, hell, even _China. _Common sense said America should've panicked, looking around every corner to see if someone was there. Common sense said America should've tried to get the president impeached.

But America and common sense had never crossed paths, and most likely never would.

So, as America grinned and praised himself about his short victory, he didn't notice when a lone guard turned the corner, tranquilizer gun held nervously in one hand. He didn't notice when the guard let out a soft gasp, and aimed the gun at his back. He didn't notice—

Until he felt a sharp prick in his shoulder.

The powerful anesthetic immediately began coursing through his veins, and he stumbled slightly and let out a soft cry of alarm. A gloved hand reached around to clasp the dart and yank it out, and he quickly discarded it on the floor.

The world was growing fuzzy around the edges, and he felt as though he were hearing everything underwater; America vaguely perceived shouting, which sounded suspiciously like, _"He's over here! Hurry!"_

_Got to get away…I shouldn't have stayed here! _Cursing his stupidity (for once!), America broke into a clumsy jog, sideswiping the walls several times due to his impaired coordination.

_No…this can't be how it ends! It takes more than a tranquilizer to bring a hero down! _

And with that, his clumsy jog turned into a full out run, even as he wavered, his feet unsteady, feeling as heavy as lead. Though he wasn't as fast as he was before, he certainly could still escape, if he continued at this pace for a while.

_It might be a good idea to text Mattie or Iggy, _Alfred thought._ Actually, it would've been a good idea to text one of them earlier. _

That was his last thought before he felt another prick in his arm, which very quickly numbed up.

Immediately, he crashed into a wall, hands scrabbling uselessly. His face contacted with something hard—_a doorknob…that's a doorknob!—_and he, ignoring the dampening voices as best he could, groped for the handle with desperation. After several seconds of doing his best to open the door, his dead fingers finally found purchase—and the door opened.

He'd hoped it was a room with windows, some place he could jump out of or something, but…

His fuzzy mind could only manage slight despair and mild fury when he found himself in a supply closet, filled with mops, brooms, and other random cleaning supplies. Hardly a weapons vault, or a bunker, or an _escape route—_

America let out a loud sigh, and slowly allowed himself to slump against the hard-wood door. Cornered, trapped, tranquilized (twice)…there was only so much a hero could go through before he finally admitted defeat.

And now…

He finally admitted to himself that there was no way out of this.

_Except…for the sidekick...Mattie. _

His hand slowly, lethargically, began to pat his pocket, searching for the phone with numbed fingers. _I'm losing feeling in my fingers…soon it'll be too late. _Finally he felt it—a small, hard lump in his pocket that was too big to be a roll of fat. Fingers danced against the edge, reached in, tugged it out—_touch screen, thank God—_and he tapped, 'New Text Message'. _Contacts…France…Iggy…Mattie! _

His vision blurred and the words swirled on the screen, but somehow he managed to type four letters—four simple, meaningless letters; a single word that could have changed what was to come and could have prevented an almost-apocalypse.

Something rammed into the door; he gasped and felt himself going under. _Not now! _

Finally—_finally—_he tapped send. Satisfied, he relaxed, tension draining from his tired body.

The door jumped beneath him again. Another thought, jumbled and broken, jumped into his brain.

_They'll…find the…phone. They'll track…down Mattie...They'll find Iggy, and France, and…_

Sluggishly he lifted his arm and…with the last of his legendary strength, flung his arm out, snapping his wrist. There was a soft, muffled thump, and finally, he was finished. His brain short-circuited, his vision went dark, and all feeling left his body.

Something slammed into the back of his head, and he slid forward, arms smacking a cleaning bucket in the corner.

And America knew no more.

_Many kilometers away, in a small cabin in Canada, a small iPhone did not ring. Matthew Williams, also known as the embodiment of Canada, continued eating his pancake breakfast. _

_Buried deep in the wall of a supply closet, another very similar iPhone in Washington D.C. flashed a message on its cracked screen: "No signal. Message saved to drafts."_

**Hey folks! So I know I've been talking about this for a while, and it's finally here! This is the massive project I've been writing for God knows how long. It'll be an epic trilogy. And trust me, it'll be EPIC. I have the entire first part written, and I'll update once every two weeks, until I get to the time skip. Then I'll wait a month before posting the second half. **

**Warning: Several OCs. **

**I'd like to thank my BFTTFAM, who read this chapter after chapter. Also West Pharaoh. I'd also like to thank Gargoyle Alchemist, who beta-read for me and who I'm forever thankful to, and my sister, who edited some stuff when she had the time. This couldn't have gotten off the ground without you guys!**

**IceEckos12**


	2. Ground Zero: 2

**Series: Condemned**

**Title: Book 1: Condemn the Free**

**Summary: The end of the world is coming, and it all started with the disappearance of the United States of America.**

**Pairings: FrUK, implied RusAme, OC/OC pairings. **

**Rating: T, may go up. **

**Warning: Eventual torture, excessive use of OCs. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

"Subject appears to be unaffected by the drug—no sign of brain activity, still appears to be unconscious…Increasing dosage level now."

Doctor Alistair Cruise put down his recorder before swabbing the sleeping man's arm and gently jabbed a needle into a protruding vein. When he was sure that the required amount of the drug had been dispensed, he sat back into his chair, watching apathetically as the subject began to squirm in obvious discomfort. His eyes momentarily landed on the screen next to him, showing brain activity levels. He reached for the recorder again, pressing the 'record' button as he observed the results.

"The drug is fast acting; subject is showing an immediate reaction to the increased dosage. Brain activity is increasing…the drug stimulates the amygdala—what the hell do you want?! Can't you see I'm busy?" Alistair twisted around and pressed the 'stop' button, glaring at the poor soul who'd decided to interrupt him in the middle of his research.

His anger immediately subsided when he noticed who it was. "Ah; Dr. Ziegel. I wasn't expecting you."

Dr. Ziegel, a tall, awkward, gangly black-haired man with big blue eyes, leaned against the doorframe, panting. His face was flushed red with exertion, no doubt from a frantic run through the halls. Dr. Ziegel was known throughout the facility for his kindness and intelligence. He was the psychologist and counselor for the whole building—for the subjects and scientists both. His colleagues were grateful for that; after all, the job they held was not to be taken lightly.

He was also the 'child' of the lab, and was often babied—or as babied as a twenty-two year old psychologist could be. After all, he was in the same building with a bunch of mostly childless bachelors/bachelorettes. This meant that when it was his birthday, they'd throw him a big party, and when he accomplished something, they'd exclaim excitedly over it. Honestly, he was more than a bit annoyed by that fact, but the others weren't too keen on the idea of backing off—they probably didn't even know the definition of 'personal space'.

Dr. Ziegel was also the only one who Alistair would even _tolerate;_ the older, balding man was easily annoyed, and often took his work too seriously. Alistair was thought to be insane (which was probably why Dr. Ziegel liked to hang around with him), and put his work above not only his health, but everyone else's health, too. Whenever he walked the halls, he could be seen doing something work-related: reading a book, scribbling away on a clipboard…

"Hey, Alistair." Dr. Ziegel grinned slightly, one gangly arm reaching up to straighten his white coat. "Sorry to bother you—how's the test going?"

The subject let out a garbled scream. Dr. Ziegel flinched, but Alistair was unaffected. The poor man lurched sideways sickeningly and nearly rolled off the table.

Alistair frowned, reaching over to check the subject's pulse—he'd gone suspiciously still, and the monitor showed no activity.

"Hm…perhaps that was too great a dosage. He died." With a flourish, Alistair pressed the speaker button next to him and recited a concise message: "I need an autopsy done on a body. Now would be preferable. If you're late, I'll be using you next." Without waiting for a response, Alistair clicked the button again.

"Now that that's taken care of…what do you need?"

Dr. Ziegel's smile faded slightly, but he courageously plowed on. "Uh...new subject. It's...uh...Alpha. Order came straight from the president." As though he had just remembered something, he glanced over his shoulder, checking for anyone else in the hall. Satisfied and slightly embarrassed, he leaned in closer. "Top secret, too. Only the best are working on it. You, obviously. And...uh..." He looked vaguely pleased, though he seemed to be trying to mask it. "Me, too. Dr. Kolia-Kolio-"

"Koliabskaia." Alistair corrected absentmindedly; he'd often worked with the stoic Russian scientist, and had found him good company. When people forgot how to say the other man's name, however…Alistair really didn't want to think about it.

"Right…sorry. And Dr. Von Arx—"

"The new Swiss transfer?" Alistair's voice was slightly disbelieving; himself, a German, Dr. K (as he was affectionately called), a Russian, and Dr. Von Arx, the Swiss transfer? "Is this an American project or an international one?"

Ziegel chuckled dryly, rubbing the back of his neck. His face was back to its normal pale hue, and he was breathing regularly and slowly. "That was my reaction, but…apparently, they're—_we're—_the best for the job. And the president wants this subject cloned as soon as possible. No; he wants us _mass producing _clones as soon as possible." He sighed, flicking an errant piece of hair out of his face. "I've heard that this subject is really special. Straight out of a sci-fi novel."

"Huh." Alistair's frown deepened. He didn't really have an interest in science fiction novels, though Ziegel seemed enamored by them—his most recent obsession, _War of the Worlds_, had a habit of intruding into many an unrelated conversation.

Dr. Ziegel swallowed nervously, attracting Alistair's piercing gaze. "And…um, Alistair…There's…_something else _I should probably mention."

There was a sinking feeling in the pit of Alistair's stomach, as though he knew what the younger scientist was going to say. _Oh please, please don't let it be…_

"Doctor—Doctor _Shay _will be working with us."

Those words were enough to spark a plume of rage inside of him; he didn't even bother to respond as he shot up from his chair, knocking it backwards. Ignoring the two white-clad figures hovering (suddenly terrified) just outside the door—the autopsy crew he had ordered, probably—he began to stride angrily through the halls, sending out an aura of fury, leaving bunches of frightened people in his wake.

Dr. Ziegel ran after him, following closely, trying to stop him before he did something stupid and potentially jeopardizing towards his job. It was very hard to keep up with the older scientist—even though the man was almost 40 years older than him, Alistair was surprisingly fast and Ziegel was finding it hard to keep up.

Ziegel's foot accidently caught on thin air, and he toppled over, letting out a cry of surprise as he fell. Even so, Alistair ignored him. As much as Alistair cared for his younger partner, there were more important things to worry about—like _Doctor Shay. _

Doctor Shay was an embodiment of everything that was and ever had been evil: temptation, adultery,_ cheating bitches that had no consideration for others—_

That woman was hell in high heels.

Alistair stomped towards his boss's office, a low growl rolling out of his throat in anticipation of what he would do to the bastard. His boss—whose name was kept a secret (just in case), but was known as K—_knew_ that Alistair hated that French woman! _Of course she's French, _He thought angrily, reaching for the handle. _Only the French could be that cruel and still be that sexy—_

As he jerked the door open, he froze. Standing there, hands planted on the desk, was Doctor Shay. Time had been kind to her; somehow the silver in her hair had only served to make her seem more elegant and _refined _than old and frail. Her piercing, intelligent blue eyes stared into his own pale gray set, and time seemed to freeze.

"Doctor Shay." Alistair said coldly, walking forward towards the desk. "I'd ask why you were here, but I believe we are here for the same reason."

"Alistair." In an equally chilling voice, she removed her pale hand from the desk and folded her arms. "It's been a while. Still out destroying women's lives? Or have you finally grown out of that?" Looking cruelly amused, her eyes traveled to his hands. "No ring? Still married to your work, I suppose, aren't you?"

God, she even still had that sexy French accent.

Alistair stared at her equally bare finger, and a small smirk appeared on his face. "What of it? At least I am faithful to my one love. Unlike you, you cheating _schlampe—"_

"Enough, the both of you! Why is it that my two best scientists are squabbling children?" Boss K shouted, causing the bickering pair to jump and fall silent. He sighed as they watched him with slightly ashamed faces and rubbed his hands over his face in a self-pitying way. "Can't you put aside your differences just this once? For the sake of the project?"

Alistair rubbed the back of his head, and opened his mouth to respond—

–and at just that moment, Dr. Ziegel limped into the room, red-faced and breathing heavily. He abruptly froze when he caught sight of the others; the tension in the air was nearly palpable. His mouth dropped open very slightly, wobbled…then, breathlessly, he said, "Ah…never mind, then. Wrong room. Need to go…fix my ankly—no, um my ankle. My ankle. Twisted my ankle, clumsy old me! Ha! Ha…"

"Z," Boss K interjected, somewhat weary. "It's fine, you can come in. We need a good mediator," He let out another long sigh and picked up the mug on his desk, muttering something about _'needing something stronger than coffee…'. _"I know you two don't like each other, and I understand. Bad blood. But there's nothing I can do about it. You two are the best we've got—_the _best. Mr. President won't have anyone but the _best _working on this project. He's very interested in this, and has generously granted us a large sum of money. Just this once—_just _this once—do me a favor and work together?"

Dr. Shay eyed Alistair, who glared back. They both understood that they'd never be able to put aside their 'differences'—but they could put their hatred in the back seat for the sake of this…project, since it apparently was so important.

"Fine." Alistair growled, "But if she gets within ten feet of me—"

"Likewise."

The Boss looked as though he wanted to protest, but he sighed instead, as though finally realizing that his attempts at some sort of peace were _not _going to be fruitful. Instead, he checked his phone, as though he was waiting for an important call—and indeed, he was. Just a second later, the phone buzzed. It was next to his ear in a second, eyes flying to the ceiling as he listened to the message. The call lasted about five seconds, and he only said one phrase throughout the entire thing. "Copy. Over and out."

Then, he placed the cellphone down on the table, and examined the team with calculating eyes. They stiffened under his hawk-like gaze. After several heavy seconds of silence, Boss K growled, "Are you prepared to accept this project? I don't want any mistakes. I repeat; no mistakes. Do you understand?"

Dr. Ziegel glanced at the others in obvious confusion, eyes wide. Alistair gave him a look, and shrugged, just as unsure as the younger scientist was. Dr. Shay tilted her head as well, somehow understanding that this would be a major turning point in all their lives. Noticing the obviously confused pair next to her, she sighed and flipped her hair over her shoulder. _Men. _

The question was met with one, "oui", a nod, and a slightly bewildered sounding "yeah".

"Then come and meet project America."

* * *

Canada, a.k.a. Matthew Williams, walked slowly down the street, lips wrapped around the French baguette he'd bought from the nearby Panera Bread. He was almost completely silent as he passed people, and they took no notice of him, even when he nearly ran into them and apologized with a soft, "sorry".

He sighed quietly as his stride ate up the sidewalk, content with this arrangement. He'd never really liked being noticed, especially by all these crazy Americans; though sometimes they could actually be quite polite, he supposed, remembering the lady at the Panera. She had smiled slightly and given him the exact amount of change before telling him to enjoy his day. Yes; not all the people in America were that bad.

The actual country, however, was another story entirely.

America himself was loud, brutish, and didn't have an ounce of shame (or tact, for that matter). Even if you hadn't ever met him, you'd know that he was annoying and overly happy; there was something about his blindingly bright smile and sparkly blue eyes that seemed way. Too. Cheerful. He gave off enough of his own natural light to give a goth a seizure.

_But, _Canada mused, _in the end, his heart is in the right place. Thank God. If we had a cruel, evil super-power, everyone would be enslaved to his will. _

Speaking of the country, he'd actually been missing for about a month. The last time Matthew had heard from him was when America had called complaining about his new boss. Apparently even his naïve brother had felt the deception coming off the president in waves of barely concealed malice. Canada frowned, remembering.

_"The guy is like a wolf in sheep's clothing! I swear. It's almost disgusting—like something that's waaaaay too sweet. Sickly sweet, I guess." America's voice was mostly sincere and unhappy, though there was a touch of the ever-so-slightly whiny tone that had Canada more amused than worried. _

_It was most likely that the man wasn't going to be trouble. "That's nice…do you think he's a threat?" _

_"Yes. Hell yes." There was a pause, and a soft rustling noise; probably America running his hand through his hair tiredly. Canada was slightly alarmed by the change of tone—from slightly whiny to very, very serious. Whoever this guy was, he might actually be dangerous. "Dammit. I have a meeting with him tomorrow. The guy puts me on an edge." A soft sigh. "I'll work everything out with him then." _

_Canada opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to find the right words. Finally, he just said, "Take care of yourself, Al." _

_America laughed a loud, happy laugh. "Of course! Nothing bad is going to happen. I'm the hero, after all!" _

_The serious moment had passed. Canada smiled, and they fell into their easy conversation—America babbling while Canada sat there, content just to listen to his brother's rambling voice. _

_But a little niggling voice in the back of his head whispered, 'Why did it sound like he was trying to convince himself?'_

Canada been coming to D.C. anyways because of the meeting; it made perfect sense to check up on his brother while he was here. He shoved another bite of bread into his mouth. _I'm sure it's nothing, _he thought, _I'm sure when I knock on his apartment he'll open it up and be like, "Oh, dude, you were worried about me? Geez, Mattie, you're such a chick."_

In fact, now he was kind of angry at America for making him worry about his ungrateful ass. Sometimes Canada felt like the older brother, always keeping track of his other half and making sure the other didn't get into any trouble. Canada _cooked _for his brother, cleaned up his messes, and even took the heat whenever America got into trouble. And when Canada had confronted him, he'd nearly got a face full of chainsaw for his troubles! _When I get there, I'm going to give him a serious piece of my mind! _The country huffed, quickening his pace, and downing the last bit of the baguette.

_You're deluding yourself. _Damn voice.

_I know._

_He's in trouble. You can feel it. He's your other half. You know that he's in trouble! _

_Shut up. Just shut up. Please. _

_Just what are you trying to accomplish? Someone might be torturing him! He could be dying! You can feel that he's in pain! Do something, you cowardly—_

"Shut up." He growled to himself, this time out loud. It earned some odd looks from the few passersby that actually noticed him. Canada struggled to calm himself down, knowing that he was coming off as a weirdo to several people. _I don't need to freak out the citizens. _And that would be very, very bad.

Because his brother could bench-press a truck without breaking a sweat. And he was also fiercely protective of his citizens.

Yes, his heart was in the right place. But his heart also happened to have a very, very strong case of a hero-complex, willing to go from Clark Kent (aka easy-going all-American boy) to Superman, busting a few heads to protect his people.

And actually, a lot of people felt the same way about him.

So no freaking out the population. That was a big no-no.

As Canada approached America's apartment (that was where his brother stayed whenever they had a meeting), he was slightly surprised to see two men in black standing outside, looking as though they were about to break down the door. This panicked Canada greatly; not two summers before, some psychopath had kicked down America's door, claiming that the jovial country was an evil spirit and planning on taking over the world.

That did not go over well with America, who had promptly busted the guys face in and called the cops. Strangely enough, those same cops had stayed for dinner while the injured guy laid on the floor, handcuffed to the table, head within range of America's giant foot.

Americans were so weird.

But anyway, the two men didn't seem all that insane, so Canada hurried slightly, then slowed when he reached them. The two men hadn't given him a second glance at first, but when they finally noticed him they recoiled abruptly, as though they'd just seen a ghost, and in their moment of surprise Canada got a better look at them.

They were very nondescript; their only distinguishing features were that they had none. They had obviously been designed to blend into the background—not literally, as Canada could have, but as close to it as possible. They both had military-styled buzz-cuts, features sharp and angular. Their shoulders were broad and muscled, though one was significantly shorter than the other—and he also looked slightly meaner. The taller one had a more relaxed attitude, hands buried deep in his pocket, back slouched over.

Well, not anymore. But they had been, before they'd seen Canada. Now they were drawing their guns and _holy shit—_

"Stop! Don't shoot! It was Alfred's fault, not me! I swear I didn't do it!"

When someone points guns at him, it's usually his brother's fault. No, scratch that. It's always his brother's fault.

Hey, it was instinct. Can you really blame him?

The smaller one began snarling quietly to the taller one, looking more than a little confused. The taller one still had a slightly relaxed look, though to a keen eye it appeared tense and aware. For this reason, Canada assumed the taller one was the more dangerous one.

Tall (for that was what Canada had decided to call him) leaned over and murmured something to Shorty. Shorty looked over at Tall, and snarled something back. Tall gestured to Canada with one hand—not releasing the gun—and Shorty reluctantly looked at him again, narrowing his eyes in obvious contempt.

Shorty's expression cleared, and he slowly lowered the gun. Tall mimicked him. Neither of them put their guns into their holsters.

He was right when he assumed that the tall one was the most dangerous. He had obviously been sent to control his hot-headed partner; words were a better weapon than guns could ever be. Shorty had been just _itching _to shoot Canada, damn the consequences. And in just a couple words, Tall had easily calmed him down.

"T-Thank you," Canada sighed noisily and placed his hand over his heart, trying to exaggerate his movements as best he could. Better they think him a harmless little coward than a threat. "For a moment I thought you were going to shoot me!" He peered at them through his thick glasses. "Are you looking for my brother? He'd have known you were here by now. He's probably half-way across the country. He's a slippery one!" He let out a high-pitched, fakey laugh. "But of course his little friends come looking for me. Oh-ho, does he warn me? N-No. Of course not!" Canada was really getting into it; actually starting to mean the words he was saying. "No, he lets me deal with every damn bastard that comes along, no matter who it is! If I had a penny for every time I was mistaken for—"

"That's nice, sir," Tall's eyebrows were twitching by now, and Shorty had stepped back several feet. Canada immediately wilted; he hadn't meant to get that into it… "I assume you're related to Alfred F. Jones?"

Huh. He hadn't even flinched at Canada's anger. Not only was he persuasive, he was tough, too.

For some reason, he didn't want to reveal that he and America were twins; something about this whole situation screamed trouble. Why else would two men be standing outside of America's house, wielding guns?

If that wasn't trouble, he didn't know what was.

"Adopted brothers," Canada responded flippantly. "Can I help you? Who are you?"

Tall glanced down at Shorty, who immediately growled out, "I'm Agent Devon, and this is Agent Bea. We have a warrant to search this apartment." Agent Devon paused, and then said, "It wasn't mentioned in Jones's file that he had a brother."

The country laughed nervously, and rubbed the back of his head. "We've been roommates for the longest time, and we look so much alike…it's not really official or anything." _Technically. Ha ha. _"Why do you need to search his apartment? What agency are you with? _What's going on?_"

Devon furrowed his brow, and looked up at Bea. The taller agent smiled softly, though there was an almost unnoticeable warning in it. "We're with Homeland Security. We've found that your brother has been conspiring against the president and currently have him in custody. We're here to see if he was alone, or if he was working with a terrorist group."

Canada's mouth dropped. He could not have stopped it if he tried. _W-What? _

The tall agent misinterpreted the expression, nodding gravely. "I know it must come as a shock to you, Mr.…?"

"Williams. Matthew Williams." He whispered numbly.

"Mr. Williams. I know you make think that your brother is innocent, but he attacked the president right in front of us. If it weren't for our quick reflexes, the president would be dead." Bea nodded gravely, really getting into the spiel. "Now, if you could let us into the apartment?"

Canada was suddenly very glad that America's actual home in Pennsylvania was not listed in his file.

"Uh, of course. Please don't break down the door. I stay here whenever I visit D.C. It'd be a pain to replace it." Canada smiled meekly, deciding to go with a, 'I'm a harmless little mouse who is no threat' look.

Bea still didn't look convinced by the act. He turned and murmured something to Agent Devon, who gave Canada a suspicious glare before thrusting his hands into his pockets and sitting gloomily on the cement rail. Bea then twisted around to look at Canada, and asked, "Why do you visit D.C.? Do you have a job in the capital?"

_I'll pretend I don't notice you interrogating me,_Canada thought viciously to himself. _I'll pretend you don't sound really suspicious. I'll just keep doing that, then. _"Oh, I'm from Canada originally. I'm actually an ambassador, so I'm here pretty often." This time, the smile was genuine. "Al takes care of me while I'm here. He can be annoying sometimes, and a slob, and tactless, and rude…" He coughed. "Anyway, he's really loyal. He'd never betray me…" Canada's softened face turned into an evil glare. "Or his country. Check him for drugs. Look for blackmail. The president might've said something to piss Alfred off, but he'd never betray his country. You're severely mistaken."

Bea recoiled slightly. Canada winced; some of his ancient fury must've shown in his eyes. It tended to happen sometimes, if he ever got really angry. If he wasn't careful, the agents might consider him dangerous. Canada forced himself to avert his gaze, and visibly wilted. "I'm sorry. You'll have to forgive me; it's been a long day…"

The agent stiffened, and gave him a weak, cautious smile. "No, it's fine. I suppose I shouldn't press you any more than necessary…you were obviously very close to your brother."

_"Damn straight," _Canada muttered under his breath and angrily jabbed the key into the lock, twisting it with violent jerk. The door slid open with a slight creak (Canada frowned; America liked to keep the door oiled to perfection. Even the tiniest of noises freaked him out.), reluctantly admitting Canada and his unwanted guests.

"Please remove your shoes at the door," he muttered to himself, glaring at the two agents who walked past him, not even bothering to remove their shoes and coats.

Canada sighed, and turned to follow them.

* * *

_Somewhere in Washington, not too far away from the Canadian border, a blonde slumbered on a metal table. _

_His eyes snapped open. _

**Wooooah, guys, what a reaction to that first chapter! I was shocked, and really happy too! Haha. Anyway, I know this chapter isn't nearly as exciting as the first one, but hey. All in good time, folks, all in good time. I've got to introduce all the important OCs! Later on I'll probably make a list, because there will be quite a few. **

**One thing I should warn you folks: my beta is really, really slowly. I mean, a chapter every few months slow. I'll still be posting whether it's been beta-ed or not, but just note that after the sixth or seventh chapter the quality might start to nosedive. Be aware of this, please. **

**Reviews:**

**Hammsters: I feel honored! :D I'm SO GLAD I made you abuse the caps lock button-means I'm doing a good job! Here's your update! **

**OnyxBunneraffe: I get a lot, lot meaner to Al, actually. Hold onto your seat, because this poor guy is in for a bumpy ride ;). Hope you enjoyed the chapter!**

** .750: I was kind of hoping to make it intense a sort of at-the-edge-of-your-seat first chapter, especially since this one is so slow. I had a lot of fun writing it, to tell you the truth. There's a lot more suspense in later chapters, though-hope you can handle it! **

**Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed/favorited/subscribed! **

**IceEckos12**


	3. Ground Zero: 3

**Series: Condemned**

**Title: Book One: Condemn the Free**

**Summary: The end of the world is coming, and it all started with the disappearance of the United States of America. **

**Pairings: FrUK, implied RusAme, OC/OC pairings**

**Rating T, may go up**

**Warning: Eventual torture, excessive use of OCs**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

"Arthur!"

Hearing his name being called, the personification of the island nation looked up from his copy of the American newspaper, tea in one hand, and the other holding down the current page. He was frowning ever-so-slightly, obviously displeased about something he'd read. England was wearing his casual clothes: an olive-green sweater vest, paired with a crisp white shirt and long brown pants. His grim green eyes peered out from beneath two giant, fuzzy eyebrows.

He glanced back down at the newspaper, then up at France, who was running towards him with a loping gait. Reluctantly, he put the paper down, and turned so he could better see the frog. France's face was anxious and confused. England sighed; he knew _exactly_ what this was about.

"So, you've read it too?"

"Who hasn't?" France unfolded the newspaper previously clamped under his arm, and cleared his throat. "'This just in: the Secret Service has apprehended a terrorist, a twenty-one year old college student named Alfred F. Jones.' Do you know what's going on?"

England picked up his own newspaper, and turned to the article he'd been reading only seconds before. The same words that France had just read out loud blazed in black ink across the top of the page; they were impossible to ignore, even when England squinted his eyes and turned the page slightly and tried to _imagine _with all his heart that they weren't there. "He…" England closed his eyes and shook his head. "I don't know. He mentioned that he was suspicious of his new president, but he didn't talk about anything as drastic as _this." _He swallowed heavily. "I don't know what to think. You know Alfred—do you think _he_ could ever do something like this?"

France plopped down rather ungracefully into the chair next to England. He let out a soft sigh. "Alfred was a fool, but he was a patriotic fool. He would only attack his boss if he had good reason. And that is what scares me." He stroked his bearded chin, handsome face troubled. "If Alfred—who would not attempt to hurt a _fly_ unprovoked—attacked the president…what kind of man is he? What does he have planned? This does not bode well for America. This does not bode well for the rest of the _world." _

England frowned right along with him. He'd already worked this out before France had come, but hearing someone else echo his opinion made it seem much more _plausible. _If America himself—who believed that everyone American deserved a second chance—had attacked the president, then what monster had been unleashed upon the world? And now this monster had the most powerful military on the planet.

Usually whenever presidents got all weird on America, he would just weather it out on Canada. Why would he actually _attack _the president? That didn't make any sense at _all. _Of course, he could've just threatened or injured the president during an attempt to escape or an argument. Many presidents had tried to arrest America, thinking that he was some sort of fraud, and a cruel one at that. Sometimes, it took the threat of a fist to the face to shut some of the wordier leaders of the free world up. But that would be the most England could imagine America doing under normal circumstances.

And even in extreme circumstances…America would never betray his country. _Ever. _It was impossible, considering his ridiculous loyalty and obsessive heroism.

"Assuming that he even attacked the president at all." England muttered, earning a stoic nod from France. "It is quite possible that this article is a lie."

He needed to discuss this with someone higher up. Someone who knew what, exactly, was going on.

England rose to his feet. "C'mon, we need to talk to someone. I wonder if I can still go to the White House…"

France looked slightly doubtful, but got up anyway, smoothing his shirt unhappily. "What if the president arrests us as well? Despite this, we must keep a good relationship with _notre__Amérique__."_

This made England pause; they all knew how powerful America was these days. Not to mention smart, as well—America was not a country to be toyed with (other countries always seemed to forget that, constantly calling him a stupid buffoon). It would not be a very good idea to provoke him, even unintentionally. He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. _Hopefully, _he thought. _This is all a terrible misunderstanding. Perhaps Alfred just said something that he shouldn't have to his boss. He can be incredibly tactless sometimes. _After a second, he spoke aloud. "This is probably all a misunderstanding. We just need to put in a good word for Alfred, or we'll never get him back. That idiot would just be digging his own grave."

France relaxed slightly, and smiled. "Of course. With _notre chère Amérique, _whenever he opens his mouth, he inserts his enormous foot." Noticing that England was on the move, France followed him out the door of the hotel café, quickly catching up to the island nation's short strides. There was a lull in the conversation while England signed them both out, and France spoke again—but slowly, as though the thought had been lurking in the back of his mind for a while. "What I don't understand…"

England glanced over curiously.

"Why would they make such a thing public?"

At England's confused blink, he elaborated.

"Think about it. Alfred is friends with many people—many important people. No doubt someone would try to retrieve him, as we are doing. The people who really know him would know that he would never do such a thing." France frowned pensively. "Many people would be angry. More than many."

England stared at him, mind churning. That was a very good point. Alfred was best friends with all of the Supreme Court Justices, and regularly had coffee and played golf with the chief of White House staff—he even had a key to Bill Gates' summer home, amongst many other things belonging to some of his most powerful citizens. England really didn't know how he kept track of them all. However, that was not the point; the point was that if anyone truly _knew _America, then they would know that he would never betray his country. And they would be very angry if anyone suggested such a thing. In fact, they would likely march right up to D.C. and start causing a fuss.

Then it clicked.

"Oh." He whispered, stopping abruptly on the sidewalk, staring thoughtfully at a speck on the ground.

France, who had continued walking, paused when he noticed that England had frozen. "What is the matter?"

"Oh—well, he knows how to play his cards correctly." England ran a hand through his hair. "I was ready to march up there and demand that they release him. A-a rookie mistake. That's…"

"What?" France demanded nervously, tapping his foot against the ground. "Don't play games, _Angleterre_! Tell me!"

"He put that in the papers on purpose. The president is trying to draw out all of America's friends." Something else clicked. England's eyes widened, fists curling subconsciously. "He doesn't know if there are more countries. He thinks that if he dangles America on a thread in front of us, we'll come looking for him—if there are any of us. And we almost fell for it."

France suddenly looked very scared. "If we had come…"

"I don't know what would've happened. But whatever he wants us for, we won't let him have it. This is obviously something much deeper than we expected." England opened his fist, and stared at his palm. There were three red crescents where his fingernails had dug into his skin. His eyes flickered up to France's, startling the other country with their intensity—so much that the Frenchman almost took a step back. "We need to get to the bottom of this. France, are you willing to help me?"

Seeing France's unsure, hesitant look, England growled. "Come on, France! Don't help me; help Alfred. You know he's in trouble. Or else the president wouldn't have done this."

"Perhaps you're reading into this too much," France said delicately, trying not to look ashamed.

"You've practically been a second father to him, France. When he actually needs your help, are you going to let him down?"

France looked longingly at the French-style café down the street (not that the food would _ever_ be as good as it was at home; but when one was homesick, almost anything would do), and sighed. Loudly. "I suppose. Where do we start?"

England grinned widely, clearly pleased with France's response.

"His apartment."

"Would you like something to drink? I have coffee, juice—Hey! B-be careful with that!"

They hadn't even been in the apartment for five minutes, and they had already almost given Canada several heart attacks.

Agent Devon glanced up from the pot he was holding, which was an old Apache one that had been Canada's mother—Native America—'s. However, Devon didn't know that. Instead, a sneer curled on his lips, and he said, "What could be so special about a cruddy little pot like this?"

Canada was about to respond, which would've meant insults. A _lot _of insults. At that moment, however, Agent Bea stepped in, gently removed the pot from his partner's hands, and giving him a cold glare. Agent Devon recoiled fearfully, stepping back as Bea put the pot back on the shelf. Canada watched the exchange curiously, trying to get a feel for their roles. It was obvious that Agent Bea was the leader, and Agent Devon was probably a rookie. Most likely. The way he acted—rash at times, but instantly fearful when it came to Agent Bea—made it obvious that they weren't equals. Agent Devon seemed like the type who'd want to take charge and poke fun at his partners, and the only ways he wouldn't were if a) His partner was his boss—actual boss; not caretaker, or b) If he was a rookie and knew that him not paying attention would equal screwing up. Big time. Canada guessed it was the latter. Actually, that was probably the reason Bea was doing all the talking. It was always good to see a senior officer in action—though Bea probably wasn't appreciating working the case and looking after Devon at the same time.

"A-As I was saying," Canada said, smiling tightly, "Would you like something to drink?"

Agent Bea—who'd been pretty relaxed the entire time, just as when Canada had first seen him—glanced away from the pot and smiled back. "I'm sorry about my partner. He's new."

Agent Devon growled. Bea sent him another cold glare. Devon shut up. "And coffee would be splendid."

Ah-ha. He'd guessed it.

"Oh, no, it's quite alright." Canada turned around and flipped on the coffee machine. He got out the best grounds he could find—an Independence Day present from Italy—and began to work on preparing the drinks. Honestly, he didn't really want to make anything for them; it was just that cooking calmed his mind. That and maple syrup, but America didn't stock up on the good kind unless he knew someone was coming over. Canada opened up the cupboard and stared distastefully at America's sorry excuse for his brother's favorite topping—no doubt filled with preservatives and dyes and all sorts of nasty things. Probably didn't even taste remotely similar. _Is it worth it? _He wondered, reaching out and stroking the bottle. _If Al finds out, he'll never let me live it down. _Reluctantly, he forced his hand back to his side…but then he felt a sudden pang go through him. If _he ever finds out. If is good._

He picked up the bottle.

"Who's this?"

He nearly dropped the bottle. Internal alarms started going off in his head. Who was that? Gah!

Canada managed to grab the syrup (imitation) before it tumbled out of his adrenaline-pumped hand and whirled around to face the source of the voice. Agent Bea. Damn it. Canada tried to unclench his fist before Bea noticed—it was a stock reaction for most of the nations to punch the lights out of anyone who startled them. One could probably blame it on instinct. When you've lived through that many wars, and seen that many people die, you get a little twitchy. Sure, you can't die, but things like shrapnel to the skull sure do hurt. Thus, Canada had been seconds away from braining the unsuspecting agent.

Ignorant to the situation he'd nearly gotten himself into, Bea thrust a photograph into Canada's face. Slightly surprised, Canada found himself face to face with himself, an overly-happy America, a mock-scowling England, and a jokingly-sexy France. The picture had been taken last year when France and England had invited the North American twins on a vacation to Europe; he could clearly see the Eiffel Tower standing proudly in the background. He remembered the memory.

"_Hey, hey! Look over there—c'mon, Mattie!" America grabbed Canada's wrist, and began dragging him towards the Eiffel Tower. _

_France chuckled fondly at the familiar sight, and followed them at a more subdued pace. England walked beside him, a sentimental smile on his face. Just before Canada got out of earshot, he heard, "They still act like children. They're so innocent; I hope they never grow up." _

_Canada puzzled over the statement, looking over his shoulder to watch the pair as their voices faded. Wasn't England the one who always complained about how they needed to grow up? Perhaps he was getting old. More likely, Europeans were just weird. _

_Probably._

"_Wooooow!" America shouted, jarring Canada out of his thoughts. His brother, who looked unusually tiny beneath the giant structure, started spinning around, unintentionally dragging him along for the ride. "Wouldja lookat that! Wow—this is so cool! Can you imagine the planning it took to make this? This is an architectural masterpiece! So coooooool!" _

_Canada managed to detach his hand from his brother's tight grip, and immediately got flung to the ground. He watched as England came up and began berating his brother about his actions; a second later a warm hand placed itself on his back, and blond hair that wasn't his hung in his face. "_Es-tu ça va, mon cher_?"_

"Bien, merci_." Canada smiled up at his mentor, accepting France's hand, and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Switching to English, he glanced over at America. "Al was really excited about this vacation. He's been talking about it for weeks. I don't think he's ever seen the Eiffel Tower up close before." _

_France looked vaguely surprised, glancing over at America curiously as he waved his hands around, talking excitedly to England. The poor Brit looked like he wanted to kill himself. "_Vraiment_? I didn't know. I…" _

_France didn't get to finish his sentence as he was cut off by America shouting, "Francis! Mattie! C'mere!" _

_The pair glanced over at America—who was pumping his arm back and forth, the camera in one hand. England looked more than slightly upset next to him. France laughed, "It seems that America wants a picture. I do not think he realizes that someone else will have to take it for us." _

_Canada chuckled softly; America was never the sort of person to think ahead. Going a little further, he mused, America was never the sort of person to think at all. Yeah, like he hadn't already figured _that _out centuries before._

"_Dude, Mattie, I'm so excited!" Canada's over-excited brother wrapped his arms around him in a bone-crushing bear hug. Canada's breath whooshed out of his chest, and he desperately tried to suck some air into his crushed lungs. "This is the best vacation _ever_! It's been so long since we all got together for something like this!"_

"_Y-yeah," Canada squeaked, trying to smile, "T-the best." Only France seemed to notice how blue Canada's face was turning. _

_France laughed, and jovially slammed his fist into America's shoulder. It didn't really seem to hurt the star-spangled moron at all, comparable to a little bee sting on a bear. However, it affected him enough that he dropped his brother and turned on France. "Dude, what the hell? We're here to enjoy ourselves; we're not supposed to be attacking each other! Speaking of enjoying ourselves…" America grinned. "I want to remember this! We need a _picture!"

"_We _can't _take a picture, you wanker, that's what I've been trying to _tell _you!" England finally stepped in, his signature scowl on his face, sounding perhaps a little less annoyed than he looked. "We need someone else to take it, and I will _not _allow you to go up to one of the population!" He shook his head angrily. "We do not need that kind of trauma on our hands. Hand over the camera!" _

_America's face fell ever so slightly, then his smile returned, just as full and bright as before. "What? I'm sure one of them would be happy to take one for us!" He looked around, spotted a civilian (poor thing), and before England or France could stop him, waved him down. "_Bonjour_!" he called, in an atrocious accent. "_Bonjour, mademoiselle_!"_

"_Stop!" England shouted, at the same time that France said, "_Mon dieu_!" _

_It took the countries five minutes to calm the civilian down, but by the time things were over, he (yes; he—for all America's power, he was terrible at French) was perfectly willing to take the picture for them. Canada had to give him some credit. _

_Canada smiled. The camera flashed. _

Returning to the present, Canada looked up at Bea, and then back down at the picture, before sighing and reaching up to open the cabinet. As he was removing Al's pancake mix (there were some things that he could reconcile himself with, at least), he responded, "Those are my…" He paused. "We were college friends. All of us. Al—Alfred—had never seen the Eiffel Tower, and Francis was originally from France, so…" He laughed and ripped open the box with a little more force than necessary. "He agreed to take us."

Bea, who had obviously expected something akin to a confession of America's evil ways, looked a little shocked—and with a solemn silence walked out of the room, no doubt to set the photo back down. And to start tearing the quiet little apartment apart again. Canada glanced over his shoulder, rhythmically whisking the batter, and let out a soft sigh. They would never find what they were looking for here. No country kept old pictures around, and they never allowed themselves to be photographed in public unless they were the only recipients of the photos. If someone else were to recognize a country in a photo from years and years ago, their identities would most likely be revealed. Photos from over twenty years ago were stored in vaults in Geneva, Switzerland.

Just about every one of the hundreds of countries and smaller unofficial nations in the world were grateful that Switzerland was and for centuries has been a neutral country. Switzerland wasn't exaggerating when he said all the _world's _valuables were stored within his borders.

Bea was barking up the wrong tree. In fact, he was an ocean away from the right tree.

Canada flipped a pancake and sighed. That safety still didn't change the fact that America was gone, held captive by his own government. There was no way a country could be a terrorist to their own people unless they were in some way compromised. Given that America's drug of choice was Coca-Cola, and his anger fits passed quickly, the more likely option was that his president was holding him captive _because _he was a country. They might not find outside evidence to prove it, but they still had _America, _the genuine article, and his probable confession. They didn't really need any other _evidence; _they were just making sure there weren't any other countries—or friends party to his secret—that America might have.

He didn't notice Agent Devon's presence until he was standing next to him.

"Gah!" Canada nearly dropped the spatula; it was only due to his quick reflexes that he managed to catch it. Quickly he whipped around to stare at the Agent, glad he'd managed to restrain himself. "C-can I help you?" He asked nervously.

It was then that he noticed that the agent was staring hungrily at the pancakes. Canada sighed loudly; Americans always thought with their stomachs, not their heads. Either Agent Devon didn't notice his loud sigh, or just didn't care, because he said, "Hey. How many pancakes are you making?"

"Would you like one?" Canada turned to flip the pancake before it burned. "I've made plenty. I always cook when I'm stressed."

The Agent didn't hesitate. "Sure. Cool. Where are the plates?"

Several minutes later, they were both sitting at the table, Devon hungrily stuffing his face with the pancake, Canada just sitting there, poking dejectedly at his own. The American didn't even seem to realize how heavy and uncomfortable the air was, continuing to shovel the food in. Canada couldn't watch him. It felt too much like he was looking at Alfred, stuffing another of the fresh, homemade pancakes into the bottomless pit that was his stomach. No matter how much his older brother liked hamburgers, he would always _insist _that he liked 'Mattie's' pancakes even more.

"_Damn, Mattie, how do you do it? You cook better than any girl I know. These are fucking _delicious!"

Tears started to prick his eyes. His brother was _so _stupid. So naïve. But…he was so wonderfully simple, like a child. Something as simple as Canada's pancakes could keep him on cloud nine all day! How could anyone even _think _that America would even consider betraying _anyone _at all? Sure, America could be unintentionally rude, but he had never _tried _to make anyone angry (unless it was Russia, but that was a given).

Canada sighed and put his fork down. He couldn't eat anything, feeling too sick.

Finally, _finally, _Devon seemed to notice how awkward everything was; his eyes widened ever so slightly, and he slowly put his fork down, even though there was a pancake hanging half out of his mouth. Ever-so-slowly he chewed and swallowed the portion in his mouth, and gave up on the rest of the pancake, letting it drop back to the plate. He carefully picked up a napkin, wiped his mouth, and placed it back down. Tentatively, he said, "So, uh…your brother. You guys were close, yeah?"

Canada snorted.

Devon shifted. "Yeah, uh, sorry. Stupid question." He paused. "You really think he's innocent?"

"I _know _he is," Canada practically snarled at him, clenching his fingers, "You really think he's not?"

There was a long moment of silence, and suddenly Canada realized how unfair it'd been to snap at him. After all, the poor rookie was just doing his job. "Listen…I'm sorry. It's just been a stressful day. You didn't…" He frowned. "You didn't know him. You've probably only seen his picture."

"I shot him."

Canada turned his head sharply to look at the agent. "_What?"_

Agent Devon looked down in shame, hands balled into loose fists on the table. "Do you know how many tranq darts it took? Four. The first one in the arm didn't even faze him. The second one in his lower back didn't really do much. The third one in his shoulder sent him crashing into the wall—but even then, he had the presence of mind to hide in a closet. The final tranq was in his neck, and that was what finally forced him asleep. I don't even think he noticed it."

Canada stared at the other in horror, not even sure what to say.

"I'd never shot at anyone before." He said quietly. "And this guy—your brother—was tough. He was really, really tough. He…he ripped the door off its hinges and threw it at us. I'd never seen anything like it. He was so _strong, _and I—" His breath caught in his throat.

Canada didn't understand. "Why are you telling me this?" He whispered. He didn't want to hear about how his proud, strong brother had been hunted down like some sort of _animal—_

"When I came around that corner, and saw him, standing there, I—" Devon paused again, clenching and unclenching the napkin that had, at some point, found its way into his hands. "He was so strong. I didn't—couldn't—understand him. He wasn't someone you _hunt. _He wasn't just someone, he was…" The crumpled napkin fell from his fingers. "He was…it may sound completely…insane, but…it felt like he was _everyone, _and _everything. _I don't understand—I didn't understand—" He trailed off. "I still don't. I think I never will. But I regret shooting him."

The country stared at the agent; this man who had _shot _Alfred—yet he also seemed so remorseful, so _young…_

Canada had never been thrown completely off guard before. Sure, he'd been stunned before, or been very surprised, but he'd never been _shocked _into stillness. He'd come to expect craziness and the like from other countries—when most of one's compatriots were at least a couple centuries old, you kind of expected everyone to be certifiably insane. However, he'd never been completely speechless, robbed of all thought and emotion. He just sat there and stared, trying to think of something—_anything—_to say.

Whichever country said that citizens were simple creatures, far inferior to their own kind, had never met an American.

America blinked at the ceiling.

His head hurt. His thought process was simple, in single-idea sentences.

Where was he? He was lying down. The bed was uncomfortable. He was hungry. He needed hamburgers. No, that was not what he should have been thinking about. He was wondering where he was. It was too bright to think. No, it wasn't too bright to think, it was too white to think. Heh. White and bright rhymed. He should be a poet. Oh yeah, he was a poet, wasn't he? Him and Shelly. They'd made…a book. Hadn't they? No. It was all Shelly's. They didn't put his name on the cover. But he got to choose the pictures. That was cool. The sidewalk ended. But sidewalks didn't end, because the earth was round. Where on earth was he?

Somewhere in Washington. Not Washington DC, just Washington—he didn't know why England kept mixing them up. Actually, it kind of seemed as though he were doing that on purpose. Not that the European country had ever been to Washington. But he himself was in Washington. He could definitely feel that. And…the room was a bright white—he could tell that, even from the inside of his eyelids. There was something _about _white you couldn't mistake, even if you were in complete blackness. If the walls were white, you could always, _always _tell. At least, America could always tell. When he'd mentioned that to Canada, his brother had given him a long, mystified stare, before shaking his head and saying, "You're something else, Al, you really are."

America's brow furrowed. He had a feeling he was forgetting something important.

Why was he here? And where _was _he, really?

Curiously he began sifting through his memories, which were still slightly scattered, and kept slipping through his metaphorical fingers annoyingly.

_He was…going to visit his president. Yes. That's right; his new president was a psychopath. And…Lucy. Luce. Lucille. She was smiling at him. She looked so tired. So, so tired. The days had been rough on her. He offered to take her tray. She didn't want to give it to him—she had such a strong work ethic. She was a single mother. She was working hard to take care of her son. But she was tired, so she gave him the tray. _

_The president. He was smiling…smirking. He was smirking at Alfred. Because he was a master of deception. They both were. The president was smiling at him, and he had listened patiently as the country had explained who he was. And then the president had gotten all overlord-domination on him…and the offer. The sweet, tempting offer, which America had been _this _close to accepting. But then he'd refused it, because he had morals. And then…_

_The tranquilizer._

_Oh God. _

_Oh _God.

**You don't know how tempted I was to post an April Fools thing. Fortunately, though, I'm nicer than that. **

**America awakens. YAY. **

**Reviews:**

**Dreamer of Stars: We'll see what happens to America-but I do get a lot meaner. Hehe. Thanks!**

**Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed/subscribed/favorited!**

**IceEckos12**


	4. Ground Zero: 4

**Series: Condemned**

**Title: Book One: Condemn the Free**

**Summary: The end of the world is coming, and it all started with the disappearance of the United States of America. **

**Pairings: FrUK, implied RusAme, OC/OC pairings**

**Rating T, may go up**

**Warning: Eventual torture, excessive use of OCs**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

Russia dived under the table when he heard explosion, curling up into a ball as the explosion shook the air. He tamped down the panic beginning to well up in his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for it to pass.

Ever since the Cold War, he'd been trained to get somewhere safe when he saw a bright flash of light, in case of an atomic bomb. And though countries were mostly immortal, Russia did _not _want to know what would happen to him if he got in the way of a nuclear blast.

But this bomb obviously wasn't an atomic bomb—not even half the size of the monstrous explosion Russia had once tested in the middle of his barren country. But those bombs—those atom bombs had never touched civilization, never gone farther than the desolate wasteland he called home. No, this bomb was something much more significant—much worse than anything like that.

It had just blown up the Supreme Court Building. And though Russia didn't know if court was in session today…_there were probably still people inside! _

Trying to shake off his old wartime habits, Russia slowly crawled out from underneath the wooden shelter and stood up. Hunched over ever-so-slightly, he stalked over to the window and looked out, judging the distance between the ground and the ledge—it was two stories, nothing he couldn't handle (_He wasn't old; he still had perfectly good knees)_. Russia flipped one end of his scarf over his shoulder, and jumped over the sill, angling himself so he'd be able to roll once he hit the grass below—just because his knees were still fine didn't mean he could go jumping off high places whenever he felt like it.

Russia landed his jump cleanly, going into a perfect roll and coming up running, quickly eating up the pavement with his long, loping stride. People around him were screaming in panic, running around like headless chickens as they tried to figure out what was going on. A couple people—the smarter people—were on their phones, their fingers in their opposite ears to block the noise of fellow citizens. Some were just standing there, staring in shock at the burning shell of a building, and a few brave (or stupidly heroic) souls—like Russia himself—were running towards the blaze, whether to get pictures on their phones or to help anyone trapped inside, he didn't know.

It was only a block or two to the Supreme Court building, but with his long strides it took only a few seconds. He usually got some odd looks from the population, due to his size and his attire, but people had better things to worry about than a giant with a scarf running helter-skelter through the streets. Thankfully, people left him to his business, so when he pushed through the crowd of people already gathered around the blaze, no one tried to stop him.

Even though the fire was several feet away from him, he still felt its hungry burn on his skin. Wincing in distaste—he'd always hated heat—Russia began pulling up his scarf to wrap around it around his face, completely covering his mouth and nose—not only was his scarf a great comfort to him, it was an excellent filter. Then, he took several deep breaths through his nose, puffed the air out through his mouth, inhaled one last time, before running headfirst into the flames.

Ignoring the shouts of the crowd around him—_"What the hell are you doing, you crazy bastard?!"—_Russia leapt over the flaming rubble and into hell.

Immediately he was met with intense heat nearly _burning _through his coat, heating his cool hair. He could hear soft hissing noises—the fire coming into contact with his chilly skin. Ignoring the sound and sensation of being surrounded by fire, he began striding through the wreckage, keeping his ears and eyes open for anyone in the rubble.

So far, he couldn't see anyone, but the damage to a once beautiful building made him want to cry. Whoever had exploded it had done a very good job—there was almost nothing left standing, just a couple very sturdy, stubborn poles poking up every once and a while. It was highly doubtful that there would be any survivors at all, but still, he had to try. Had to try to…

Had to try and be the hero.

Crap. Now he couldn't make fun of America any more.

Glad that he didn't have to reach up and adjust his scarf—it was very trusty and didn't move easily—Russia kept looking, kicking at the rocks and the flaming wreckage the explosion had left behind.

As he was reaching for a beam lying in front of him, he saw it—a body.

And it made him want to throw up.

He had been in war before, had seen stuff of horrors—_a million people, all starving and diseased and…and—_had seen the damage people could cause to each other—_a million people, mutilated and riddled with bullet holes and covered in scars—_and he should know exactly how to handle something like this…but still. It was disgusting, horrific…

The body was charred to a blackened husk, its mouth opened slightly in a silent scream. Its clothes had all been burnt off, and you couldn't even tell what its gender was anymore. He didn't actually know if he could smell the smell of burning flesh, but he knew it well enough to imagine it. Its hair was still burning, ever-so-slowly losing any bit of unique features it had had left.

_How could people do this to each other? _He thought numbly, stepping over the corpse in a sort of detached coldness. _Why would anyone think that this is a good idea?_

**_You used to do this to people for fun. You're getting sick because you remember what you did. _**

_I…I did terrible things. But I am past that now. _

**_So you say. But once a criminal, always a criminal. And you know it. _**

_If that were the case, then all of the countries would be mass-murderers. _

**_You all already are, dumbass. _**

He had no response to that.

But he kept moving, kept kicking at the rubble, kept working through the broken remains…and he found more bodies, more people burnt to a blackened, shrunken…_thing. _Something that had been human, but now resembled nothing of the sort.

Russia shuddered. He hated massacres.

Trying not to focus on the bodies he kept finding, Russia slowly made his way to the room where court usually convened—he'd never actually been in the room before, but he'd seen enough maps and read enough books to know that general layout of the building (and, though he'd never admit to it, he'd memorized the layout of every important building in America during the Cold War. Hey, he was very sure America had done exactly the same thing!).

But still, reading about a building and being inside a building were two different things. Having never been inside said building and going into it when it is currently a smear on the ground is also a very different thing—Russia kept having to stop and regain his bearings.

Finally, he reached what had once been the magnificent court room. He'd seen so many pictures of the beautiful area, he felt as though he knew every inch of the place. But now…

It was obvious that this was where the bomb had been planted. The room was now completely demolished, the tell-tale signs of a bomb explosion on the floor, leading to a point in the exact center of the room. Anyone else wouldn't have noticed it, but Russia was a nation, and had seen more explosions than he really needed to see.

Slowly Russia knelt down, and brushed aside some rubble. There, in the center of the floor, was a shell, one that had violently ripped itself open. It was obviously much bigger, though, because when his sharp violet eyes searched the room, they landed on other large pieces of the mysterious bomb. Carefully Russia reached down and closed his fingers around the jagged-edged piece of metal that had just held the thing that had killed so many people.

And court had been in session that day. Definitely.

God, he didn't think he could stand the sight of any more dead bodies. He needed out of this place, now.

Russia quickly got to his feet, pocketing the piece of bomb he'd found, thinking he'd search for the instigator as soon as he got out of this terrible, blazing place. Actually, now that he thought about it, this seemed too much like hell for comfort—raging flames, hungrily snapping at his heels, the sight of dead bodies _everywhere. _

Russia's breath began coming in rasping pants, eyes widening fearfully. Suddenly, he was aware that he was being suffocated, the scarf around his face choking him off from the air around him. He needed to get out of this building _right now, _or he might go completely insane.

Stumbling blindly away from the blazing courtroom, Russia did his best to keep his fluctuating emotions under control as he tried to get away from his demons. Distantly he realized he was hyperventilating, and that he should probably stop because _even though _his trusty scarf kept _most _of the smoke out of his lungs, he was still sucking in some of the deadly gas. However, his panicked mind was keeping him from doing anything more than stumble away from whatever was scaring him so. And now, he was seeing things jumping out at him—shadows from his past, _people with swords grinning down at him, _might General Winter putting his chilly hands on Russia' shoulders, _a sudden numbness spreading all around his body—_

"Hold on, big guy. I've got you."

Russia looked down, through his past demons and his fears, and saw two very bushy eyebrows and two very green eyes looking up at him. Dimly he felt himself being pulled up—_when had he fallen?—_and stared wide-eyed at the little nation currently helping him get to his feet. Russia let himself get pulled up, and then shook off England's hold, only to stumble again as a wave of dizziness hit him. The tiny nation jumped out and managed to keep him from toppling over, but it obviously wasn't easy.

"Dammit, Russia! We don't have time for your pride; we need to get out of here!" England's voice was slightly muffled by the shirt wrapped around the lower part of his face, but it was still intelligible. Then, he muttered something to himself, which Russia couldn't quite make out but sounded suspiciously like, _"What the hell have you been eating?"_

"Lots and lots of vodka, little friend." Russia muttered back, straightening up as best he could to take some of the weight off the little island nation. However, he had learned his lesson; he didn't try to shake England off, instead reluctantly allowing himself to be led away from the blaze, not really paying attention to where they were going.

"Francis, help me!" Russia heard England shout, and smiled briefly. The pair was like an old married couple; always around each other, always arguing, but always relying on each other for one thing or another. Dimly he heard France's soft, elegant voice—_"Mon dieu, what is Russia doing here?"—_and another set of hands helping slow his trip to the ground.

"I-I'll get some water!" A soft, stuttering voice cried, and seconds later someone was running away from them at a speedy pace.

Russia felt slightly perplexed. He recognized that voice, but he couldn't quite recall where…the tone reminded him vaguely of America, but a niggling voice in his head told him that America was in custody, and the voice was too quiet to possibly be the over-exuberant nation. _I think…didn't he have a brother? _Russia's felt slightly dizzy, and pulling stuff from his fuzzy memory was almost impossible. _Wasn't it…Canada? Yes, that's right…that big landmass above America. _The image of a soft-spoken not-quite-a-man with violet eyes popped into his head. _Matthew. Canada! How could I have forgotten?_

He was ripped from his train of thoughts by a warm hand pressing itself to his forehead, and an insisting voice calling his name. "_Russia? _Russia? Please don't pass out on me now, Russia!" The warm hand removed itself from his forehead, and began patting his cheek annoyingly. "C'mon, wake up!"

Russia pushed the hand away and muttered, "_I'm fine. I'm fine. There is no need to shout_."

"I can't understand Russian." England's voice was slightly panicked, obviously worried at seeing the sight of the once frightening nation so out of it. "Please speak English."

Their brief conversation was interrupted by the sound of soft footsteps and panting breaths. "I got the water." Canada gasped, and Russia turned his dull gaze onto the not-quite-a-man-shaped-blob.

"Good." England said, and there was a slight pause—

Before Russia's disoriented state was rudely brought into sudden clarity by a splash of cold water.

_"What the hell? Son of a bitch!" _Russia shrieked, so surprised and angry that he didn't bother to switch to English so the others could understand, reaching back for his trusty spigot, crab-walking backwards away from them. _"I should have your head for that, you vile—"_

"Ivan, calm down!" England shouted, backing away from the suddenly violent country. That was when Russia realized that he was surrounded by many other people, and all of them were staring at him as though he were a wild animal, about to attack them.

He sighed, and put his arm back down, instead going to rub the water tiredly off his face, slumping onto the ground. Even though he was loathe to admit it, he had sort of needed that. Now that he had calmed down enough to think straight, he felt mildly embarrassed about his outburst. In his quiet, careful English, he said, "I am sorry, E—Arthur." Russia blushed furiously when he realized he'd almost said England's identity in the middle of the street; the little nation's eyes were wide with horror at his near slip. He must've been woozier than he'd originally thought. "I was disoriented from the fire and did not expect anyone to come for me. And the rest of you, for scaring you."

Canada knelt down next to Russia, violet eyes shy and kind. "We came here as soon as we heard the explosion." He said in an undertone. "We were at Al's apartment—it's only a mile away, so we all ran."

Russia nodded at the explanation. He _had _been wondering what the other countries were doing here. But then, Canada glanced up and stepped aside; he'd seen someone approaching, obviously wanting to talk to Russia.

A tall tanned woman with black hair and brown eyes stood in front of him, eyes wide. She seemed to be the only civilian not completely terrified of him, and in one hand she was holding onto an adorable little boy with curly brown hair and hazel-green eyes. "It's fine. Really. It was quite brave of you, actually. Is there anything I can get you?"

Surprised at the woman's boldness, Russia just blinked his wide violet eyes at her, the others in the crowd looking just as surprised as her. If Russia wasn't so stunned himself, he would've laughed at England—his jaw was on the floor.

"Here, I have some cookies in my pocket. You like chocolate chip, don't you?" The woman dug around in her purse, and withdrew a plastic bag with a few delicious looking chocolate chip cookies inside. "I made them this morning. They may not taste very good," She cracked the bag and took out one, "But it's the thought that counts, right?"

Russia dazedly accepted the cookie with his soot-covered hands, and just stared at it dumbly for a second. Finally, he raised his head to look up at her. "Who are you?"

"Lucille." She said, rubbing her nose. Then, without being prompted, she shoved the little boy hiding behind her legs forward. "This is Damian. Isn't it, Dami?"

Damian blushed, still clinging to his mother's skirt, and muttered a shy greeting.

Russia waved numbly, still not quite out of his shock.

Lucille wasn't one to hesitate, or dawdle. She patted her son on the top of the head, and then looked eagerly at Russia. "Were there any survivors?"

A sudden hush fell over the crowd, an expectant silence that made the air so heavy it was almost tangible. Every single one of them was silent, attentive, staring straight into Russia's frozen expression. Even the countries—Canada, France, England—were watching him, boring into him with their steady eyes.

Russia did not want to be the one to tell them that there was no one left alive. But there was no one else—the firefighters, police, and ambulances had only just arrived, their sirens piercing through the air. And people didn't want answers almost a day later, because the police always kept their mouths shut, and the only time they learned anything was when the press had time to get a hold of the scene.

Slowly, Russia closed his eyes and shook his head, the images of the dead bodies flashing through his head. "I don't…everyone I saw was dead. The bomb was planted in the court room. There were no survivors."

His words rang throughout the group, and there was a hushed silence that could only by created by pure shock.

Then the tense silence was filled with gasps of horror, people starting to cry in fear. Someone shouted, "But court was in session today!", and this only fueled the terrified whispers. England, Canada and France all stared at him, open-mouthed. Canada's violet eyes began to fill with tears, while England began shaking his head in denial and France just looking plain shocked. Lucille, still sitting in front of him, Damian held close to her with one arm, stared at him in horrified disbelief, her mouth dropped ever so slightly. She tightened her grip around Damian, and nodded, closing her mouth so her lips were pressed together in a thin line.

The little boy stared up at her, confused. "Mommy, what's going on?" He asked in his innocent voice, big hazel eyes looking into her brown ones. Lucille slowly turned around to face Damian and hugged him, whispering into his hair. Feeling as though he was witnessing a very private moment, Russia turned his head away, embarrassed. But he still managed to overhear some of her soothing words.

"It's going to be okay, Damian…It's going to be okay…" Her breath choked in her throat, and he did his best to tune her out without actually going to plug his ears. But then he heard it—so quiet that it was almost intelligible. _"…Alfred…" _

Russia straightened up, ignoring England's questioning look, and reached out to tap Lucille's shoulder, before stopping. He honestly didn't want to interrupt this heart-warming moment, but if she actually knew Alfred, then maybe…

Maybe she knew what had happened to him.

Stealing his resolve, Russia reached out and tapped her shoulder, feeling slightly uncomfortable as she turned her tear-stained face to look at him. Damian peered over her shoulder, staring at Ivan with his innocent hazel eyes curiously. Those eyes gave him enough resolve to get past his awkwardness and speak. After all, if they found America, he could help calm down the populace and raise spirits immensely.

"Miss Lucille," He began quietly, paused, and restarted. "Miss Lucille, would you happen to know a man named Alfred F. Jones?"

England turned around, obviously having heard Russia. France and Canada didn't notice, still trapped in their shock. He raised his enormous eyebrows, waiting for a response.

She blinked in surprise, and nodded very slowly, eyes wide with an emotion Russia couldn't place.

"When was the last time you saw him?" He asked in an undertone, leaning in to keep their conversation a secret from prying ears. Though he didn't much think anyone was listening; they were all too busy calling people, crying, or doing other things grieving or panicking people did.

Lucille looked away, nibbling her lip with indecision. Russia waited patiently as she glanced down at her son again, then out at the burning shell of the Supreme Court building, and then back at Russia. Finally, she asked, "What was Alfred to you?"

"We fought in a war together." Was his half-amused response. The thought nearly made him laugh—war indeed. But seriously, he didn't quite know what to call America, considering their odd relationship—half contempt, half respect—but he figured that in the end he trusted America enough to call him…well, a comrade, at the very least. And that was good enough for him.

Lucille looked mildly surprised. "I see." She murmured. Glancing back down at Damian, she narrowed her eyes. With a newfound sense of determination, she abruptly rose to her feet. "Is there a place where we can talk? Privately?"

"You can come to our friend's house." England butted in gently, smiling reassuringly at her. "I would like to know what happened to Alfred as well, if you don't mind. And I'm sure Francis and Alfred's brother would like to know what happened, too."

France and Canada were shaken out of their stupors by the sound of their names.

The pair listened quietly as England explained that Lucille knew something about America, and that they were bringing her back to the apartment so they could talk privately. Canada seemed to accept this explanation readily enough, though he looked a little apprehensive about something. However when he opened his mouth to try and speak, he was cut off by France's voice.

"But what about those two detectives we left at the house—Bea and Devon, I believe?"

England's eyebrows bunched together—he hadn't thought of that. As soon as the explosion had happened, he'd shouted at the pair to stay in the house while they went to go and see what happened, but he hadn't actually stayed to see if they had listened. It was highly probably that they hadn't; after all, whenever you hear an explosion, there is the undeniable curiosity to see what happened, especially if it's in a nation's capital. He wouldn't be surprised if they were nearly here now. Maybe in the commotion they could slip by the pair…

"Matthew." England said, looking expectantly at the Canadian. He flinched, and nodded. "You know DC better than anyone—save Alfred, of course." The younger North American brother conceded to this statement with a graceful nod. "Do you know any back roads that can take us to Alfred's house? I don't know—any shortcuts?"

"You can be quite the devious man, _Angleterre_." France said fondly, while Russia smiled happily (insert 'creepily') from where he still sat on the ground. This, of course, prevented Canada from responding. "I think it is quite sexy. You wouldn't happen to—"

"Bite me." England growled back, which was a complete mistake. France's face split into a perverted smile.

"Gladly."

"I didn't mean it like that—you _frog!" _

Canada sighed tiredly at the bickering couple, suddenly feeling like a child whose parents never stopped arguing. He leaned back ever-so-slightly—

And nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt something cold pressing onto his shoulder. Scrambling back, he couldn't decide whether to sigh in relief or to start shrieking when he realized it was Russia. "W-W-When did y-you get over there?"

The Leviathan did not respond, just smiled. "You are our leader, da? So lead."

Lucille suddenly worried for her and her child's sanity.

"I don't know what's wrong with him!" Alistair shouted, trying to help the other people in the room hold the screaming patient down. And 'trying' was the word for it—anyone who got too close to America's thrashing limbs was almost always thrown against the wall by his powerful swing. "One minute he was perfectly fine, the next he was—screaming, and clutching his heart in pain!"

Doctor Shay leaned against the wall fearfully, watching the men in their group battling it out with the nation. "Do you know if there is something wrong with his heart?"

Dr. Von Arx responded this time, his silver-blonde hair plastered against his skull, a light bruise forming on his cheek where he'd been clipped with America's flailing hand. His English wasn't as good as the others—he had learned his dialect from movies and books, and had never really used it. "We—cannot get near—" He broke off, searching for the word. "Close enough to touch him! This is madness!"

'This is madness' came out the clearest, because it was a line from his favorite movie. The Swiss transfer said it often: whenever they discovered something incredible, whenever something terrible happened…if Alistair had a free hand, he would have smacked the younger scientist for throwing movie lines around so blithely, especially in a situation like this.

The only person who was studiously focusing on the task at hand was Dr. Koliabskaia. The Russian was tall, menacing, and easily the strongest person in the room. However he wasn't any match for America—when he finally managed to grab the country's arm, he was flung halfway across the floor.

"What can we do?" Doctor Shay asked, her analytical mind searching for the answer, but finding none. The American had seemed friendly enough (if not a little angry at being captured for use as a lab rat), but now she wondered if it was just a façade, that he was just waiting for some opportunity to start freaking out. "What about a tranquilizer?"

"They do not work on him." Alistair responded, his eyes gleaming with sudden enthusiasm. "His immune system is incredible—after just three weeks he managed to get used to enough anesthesia to kill a horse."

"Focus." Dr. Koliabskaia growled, noticing that Alistair was getting distracted. He didn't need to say anything else—Alistair was scared of the tall scientist, and that one word was enough to make him quake in his shiny black boots.

"I know what's wrong!"

Dr. Ziegel burst into the room, a laptop in one hand. He completely ignored America, who had stopped screaming and flailing and was now whimpering softly, in favor of staring at the other scientists, looking a little terrified—they were all staring at him with a strange intensity. The little black-haired scientist gulped and blushed, obviously a little uncomfortable with the attention, and began to shrink into himself, stage-fright taking away the words he had to say.

Alistair was the one to act on this. "Dr. Ziegel, if you please. I think we would all like to know what it going on."

Turning an even brighter red, the scientist fumbled with the laptop and managed to get the screen open. Finally sparing America a glance, he placed the computer on the end of the metal bed (there was plenty of room—the American had curled in on himself). Then, Ziegel opened the internet to a page that was streaming news live.

The burning shell of the Supreme Court Building greeted them.

Doctor Shay gasped loudly, her blue eyes wide with shock and horror. Von Arx shut his eyes and his head lowered in a silent oath. Alistair's eyes widened slightly, and his jaw dropped. Koliabskaia was the only one who didn't react, just watched with unusually cold, stony eyes.

_"…at 2:39 today, the Supreme Court Building in Washington DC exploded. No one knows what caused the explosion; the National Guard…"_

"_Mon dieu…" _Doctor Shay whispered, suddenly aware of America's muted sobs. "Do you think that this is what caused it?"

"There…is no—" Von Arx stumbled over his words. "Other explanation."

America suddenly let out another scream, his voice shattering the scientist's eardrums. Ziegel had to swiftly pick up his laptop to keep it from getting kicked off the metal table as the nation started thrashing widely around again, mouth open wide. His voice, cracked and dry from his earlier screaming and lack of water, eventually petered off into nothing, but America still kept his mouth open—which was perhaps even worse than the shrieks. _A silent scream. _

The other scientist's backed away from the kicking and silent-screaming nation, confused once more by America's behavior. Only Ziegel knew what was going on, because he was staring once again at the screen in fear.

"_…there appear to be no survivors. A brave man—wait, what?" _The reporter held his hand up to his earpiece, staring at the ceiling. His eyes slowly widened with horror as he listened. _"No, it's not…what? The…both of them? That's not—" _He broke off and nodded once, face grim. Then he turned his eyes back to the camera. _"Ladies and gentlemen, I am very sorry. Citizens of Washington DC, I urge you to go back to your homes. Please find a safe place, and do not come out until you are sure it's safe. I repeat, please find a safe place." _He took a deep breath. _"I have just recently been informed that the Library of Congress and the Capitol Building have just exploded.. Washington DC is under attack!"_

**Hey guys! Me again. I know its kind of a late update, but I was at a really cool camp for three days-well worth the missed update! Anyway, this is where the story really starts to kick up. Things are going ****_down, _****and they are going down ****_fast _****and ****_hard. _****Haha no innuendo intended. I'm afraid our heroes are, at the moment, up shit creek.**

**Anyway, if you see any mistakes or something, let me know. I will change it. Don't let it just sit there! I appreciate the help!**

**Now, on to reviews:**

**Dreamer of Stars: England is the brains of the group, besides that one guy I can't remember the name of. Hehe. Anyway, I always try and add depth to the characters I write, because they're real people, not just puppets. Hope you enjoyed the most recent update :)**

**Undetermined Hope: Why thank you! I put a lot of hard work into this, so I appreciate when people like it ^^. **

**The Rambler: No, no! Yelling is fine! Come back, I have cookies! Thank you so much for your review :) hopefully I'll get more like yours soon. **

**Anyway, thanks! **

**IceEckos12**

**P.S. I'm sorry if I'm acting a little dopey right now something really good happened in my personal life and I'm extremely excited right now. **


	5. Ground Zero: 5

**Series: Condemned**

**Title: Book One: Condemn the Free**

**Summary: The end of the world is coming, and it all started with the disappearance of the United States of America.**

**Pairings: FrUK, implied RusAme, OC/OC pairings**

**Rating T, may go up**

**Warning: Eventual torture, excessive use of OCs**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia**

"So what do we _do?" _

Boss K stared around at the scientists, his grim, dark eyes taking in the mismatched group. Dr. Ziegel was leaning against the far wall and still clutching his laptop close to his chest, occasionally cracking it open to check for changes in the current situation. Dr. Koliabskaia was standing in the center of the room; his presence and current expression made the temperature in the room drop ten degrees. Dr. Von Arx was standing nearby, face crinkled into a scowl, arms folded tightly across his chest. Alistair was leaning against the wall next to Ziegel, his sharp eyes surveying his male compatriots, but avoiding Dr. Shay at all costs. Said Frenchwoman was tapping her heel unconsciously, nibbling her bottom lip, leveling an intense stare at Boss K. It had been Shay who had finally broken the silence.

"I would like to check on my family. Make sure they are safe." Dr. Von Arx interjected, his fiery blue eyes daring anyone to deny him the right. No one did; it was a perfectly reasonable request, given the circumstances, and honestly, no one cared. Von Arx could've been dancing on the desk in a sparkly pink tutu and no one would have cared.

"Yes…that's a…good idea." Boss K said tiredly, rubbing his eyes with one hand and reaching for his coffee with the other. However, a second after his hand had wrapped around the handle, he thought better of it and reached for his phone instead. He held the phone up to his ear, listening to it ring and completely ignoring the incredulous stares of the others in the room. When the person finally picked up, he said, "Mia. Hey. Do you mind bringing down…?" He looked to the ceiling, counting silently, before saying, "…5 shot glasses and some of our—" K blinked in surprise; obviously, 'Mia' had suggested something he hadn't thought of. "Yes, that will do. Thank you."

Alistair shifted his position, standing up straight so he could see Boss K better. "You are a saint, Boss, but I fail to see how drinking will change anything."

_"Sure as hell does help with the pressure," _The Boss muttered in response, being careful to not be too loud.

As simple as Dr. Shay's question was, none of the five people in the room had a concrete answer, or even the beginnings of one. At first, they'd assumed that the explosions had caused their subject's spasms. It had been Dr. Von Arx who'd introduced the possibility of the exact opposite. What if—what if when Alistair had electrocuted America earlier, it had caused parts of DC to explode? For all practical purposes, they didn't know a thing about their subject—for all they knew, it was a two way street. Even though they knew they would not be punished harshly by the President—this _was_ an astonishing discovery—the thought that they might've just blown up part of Washington DC was…humbling, to the point of sickening. They didn't know what they were playing with; at the moment, they were small children fooling around with a father's gun. And they didn't know if the thing was loaded.

"Either way," Alistair said firmly, reaching into his pocket for his notepad, "We can conclude that America the _person _is connected to America the country."

Startled, the other people in the room stared at him. Then, Dr. Koliabskaia nodded in agreement; the Russian's iron grey eyes became frigid cold. Slowly, he adjusted his collar and turned around, walking toward the door. He paused in the frame, and said, "I will be in my office if anybody needs me. If it's not an emergency, please do not disturb me."

Then, he left.

The rest of the people in the room shuddered, glad that the tall Russian scientist was out of the room. He scared the crap out of almost everyone in the building.

There was a long, heavy silence; no one wanted to fill the space that Dr. Koliabskaia had so recently vacated. Finally, Dr. Von Arx took a step backwards, his pale blue eyes watching them warily. "I would like…to check on my family. They…are residents of Washington DC." Then, much less dramatically then the Russian scientist before him, Dr. Von Arx spun on his heel and bid a hasty retreat to the hall.

The four people left in the room all stared at each other, wondering who'd snap first.

Dr. Ziegel, not one able to stand under pressure for very long, hugged his computer closer to his chest and muttered, "I should…I should go." Then, he left, his long legs carrying him out at a record pace.

The Boss watched Ziegel go until the door shut behind him. Then, the Boss's gaze traveled to the two others remaining (they probably just wanted to out-do each other—again). It rested on Dr. Shay momentarily, taking in her suddenly tense posture, and then Alistair, observing his equally restless figure. They stared back at him, resolute, and the Boss sighed. "For now, there's nothing we can do about what has happened," He hesitated. The two were still attentive. "I asked you two to lead the project because I trust your judgment. Do whatever you see fit about this incident."

"But what if…" Dr. Shay quickly interjected, her eyes wide, "What if we inject him with a drug and we end up polluting the American water supply?"

"I don't usually say this," Alistair rumbled, not giving their boss any time to answer, "But for once, I agree. There are too many 'what ifs'. America is…something we definitely did not expect. It's a humbling experience for scientists of our stature to come across anything like him."

Boss K did not respond, instead just staring at them again. They shifted uncomfortably under his scrutinizing gaze, trying not to sweat.

"I knew it was a good idea to have you two lead this project."

They momentarily jumped at the words of praise, quickly masking their surprise with quiet indifference. Praise didn't come from their boss easily, no matter how praiseworthy the act or result produced for him. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the hard work of those around him, no; he was simply not given to restate sentiments that he felt were already reflected through his actions. Shay and Alistair could probably count the number of times they had heard their boss give out praise on one hand.

"I'm glad I have someone here I can trust," he continued, rubbing his face in his hands. "You two are…dismissed."

They glanced at each other, unsure of exactly what was going through their boss's mind. Shay shrugged. Alistair sighed in response; then, he left the room. Shay sent one last worried look at Boss K and said, "Boss…I know that you trust us, but if you ever need to talk to someone…I have been told I have a good listening ear."

Then, she left as well, shutting the door behind her.

Boss K peered through his fingers after her, listening to the door as it snapped shut. He remained like that for a very long time, staring blankly at the door, simply mulling over his thoughts. For a moment, he actually considered going after her, talking to her, sharing this heavy burden he was carrying on his shoulders. He quickly shoved that idea aside. After all, if he said anything—_anything—_to his employees—_friends—_they would be in such danger! No, he couldn't risk it. There were powers greater than they realized in play with his troubles; _he_ was an extremely dangerous man, and—

"Aw, how sweet. Very endearing."

Boss K jumped; he'd been so deep in his thoughts that he hadn't realized he had left his pager on.

"Mr. President," he responded, quiet, eyes darting upward to make sure no one else was present. "This really isn't a good time, sir…I haven't…well…"

"Did something happen to the project?"

His voice was…cold. Eager. Did he not care that half his capital had just blown up?

"Well, yes. We did a scan, and—well, _burns _have appeared on his—its—heart. Any normal human would be dead. Any normal living thing would be dead. But…when the building exploded, that's when it happened." Boss K took a deep breath, knowing that he was about to take a step into very dangerous territory. "Earlier, one of our scientists electrocuted the subject. We have to consider the possibility that…well; our earlier treatment of the patient caused this."

The president didn't even hesitate. "Ah. Excellent. Just as I predicted."

This stopped Boss K in his tracks, eyes popping out of his sockets. "W-What? Ace, are you _insane_?"

"Don't call me that!" the president—Ace—snarled; Boss K could almost _hear _the spit flying. "We have an agreement, correct? _Kaspar?" _

Boss K—Kaspar—felt a small smile curling at his lips, but his heart really wasn't in it. Not after the _president_ had seemed almost _gleeful_ about the destruction of his own _capital_… "_Ace. _Don't be so cruel to your older brother."

There was a short, stunned pause; then, Ace let out a cold, chilling cackle. It was a far cry from the innocent trills Kaspar could remember—was that ever even Ace's laughter? "I keep forgetting who I'm talking to. Even now, I cannot push you around, can I?" He chuckled mirthlessly. The sound was like fingernails on a chalkboard.

There was a long pause, the silence between them deafening.

It was Ace who spoke first, his voice soft and unsure. "Have you…seen Celina lately?"

Kaspar stiffened. "I thought we agreed we'd _leave her out of this."_

"I—I know. But…it has been so long since I've seen my dear little sister…" There was a shuffling noise; Kaspar could imagine Ace running his fingers through his hair. "She seems like a distant memory, does she not?"

Kaspar glared into thin air and said, coldly, "Don't speak of her, ever. You don't even deserve to utter her name."

"Kas—"

"If you say another word about Celina, I will hang this phone up _right now. _Not. Another. Word."

Any thought of having a normal conversation had ended abruptly with the mention of their little sister—a contentious topic even at the best of times, let alone _now_.

Ace's voice regained a chilly tone. Any semblance of friendliness he'd tried to assume for the sake of family vanished. "Very well. Continue with the project as you were. I can assure you this; whatever you did to America did not affect the capital."

"And how do you know this?" Kaspar hissed, narrowing his eyes viciously.

For a moment, it seemed as though Ace was going to answer his question. Then, his Ace in the hole—his _little brother—_growled back, "I'm sorry, Dr. K, but you don't have the clearance that response would require."

Then, he hung up.

"Son of a fu—" Boss K swore violently, sweeping his hand across the table, sending the phone flying off the table and clattering to the tiles. Then, he jumped to his feet and ripped his chair from the floor, tossing it across the room with an animalistic grunt. He whipped around, searching blindly for anything else to destroy. His eyes landed on his desk. With a spirited, angry cry, he swung his foot into the underside, imagining his brother's face chiseled into the wood.

The desk had endured abuse from far greater men than Boss K. It did not even flinch. Instead, the boss fell backwards, clutching his foot in pain, cursing and raging angrily under his breath. For several minutes he just laid there, his knees up to his chest, cursing—at life, at his lost family, at his _brother, _for the sake of cursing...

Mia entered the room, tray in one hand and bottle of alcohol in the other, and stopped abruptly, her gaze wandering between the smashed phone in the corner, the scattered papers on the floor, the upturned chair stuck in the wall, and her boss. Though she wasn't exactly the brightest thing that had ever lived, she did recognize the signs of a temper tantrum. So, she carefully approached the still-swearing man, gently setting the bottle and try down on the desk. "Uh…sir. Is everything alright?"

"Just fucking peachy," he muttered, curled up in a ball, still rubbing his foot.

She recognized the sarcasm in his voice, and decided not to comment on it. "I brought your shot glasses and—"

"Fill them. Right now."

Never one to question orders, Mia carefully filled each of the glasses, making sure not to spill. When she was finished, she rubbed her hands on her skirt and turned back to look at Boss K, who was now sitting up, rubbing his eyes blearily. "What the hell took you so long, damn woman?"

Years of being in his service had taught Mia to hold her tongue—usually, whatever she had to say wasn't very smart and often got her into a lot of trouble. Instead, she simply replied, "The chef wouldn't tell me where he'd put the vodka…it was late, and he wanted to get home, after all. I had to bribe him. You're lucky you got anything at all."

Boss K muttered something again, still angry, scooted over to the desk, and reached up for the first shot glass, which he poured onto his head.

Mia blinked in surprise.

He downed the next one he grabbed in a single gulp. He did the same with the next three.

He smacked his lips and stared up at Mia, expectant. "Refill them."

* * *

Washington DC was burning.

His heart was _burning. _

One hand on his chest, America receded into his mind, trying to scope out the damage to his capital, which still ached, red-hot. The sensation wasn't as bad as the intense flaming agony he'd felt earlier—he shuddered violently—but it tugged and pulled at his consciousness. He was getting used to it by now, somewhat, but it was still _horrifyingly painful. _Especially when…

Especially when…

Oh, god.

His capital.

His _heart._

America's eyes parted slightly. He stared vacantly—except America wasn't seeing the white walls of his room. No, he was staring out onto the mayhem currently consuming his poor, terrified capital city.

Flames still licked hungrily at the burning buildings, devouring what remained of their hollowed shells. The once proud, tall structures lay scattered across the streets, while frantic people ran and sobbed and tried to _cope—_

Oh, his poor people. His poor, helpless, _weak_ people. They sat numbly on the sidewalk, they ran screaming through the streets, they stood together and prayed, prayed, _prayed _for some sort of miracle to come and save them. They prayed for—for—for a _hero. _And…where was he? _Where was he? _While his people were suffering, panicking, he was laying here on a metal table, feeling sorry for himself. But… what else could he do? So badly—_so badly—_he wanted to reach out to them, put a comforting hand on each shaken shoulder, tell every single resident of the burning city that it was going to be okay, because he was here, and he was a _hero…_

These people—these wretched lab coats with their never-ending supply of tranquilizers and electric shocks—they didn't know who they were messing with. They considered America to be just another lab rat; more important than most, more dangerous than most, but, when push came to shove, just another lump of warm flesh to prod and poke at will. But America the human…he was not simply one lump of flesh, but many; or, from many people, one man. Whenever America helped people, his residents saw this and, on some instinctual level, knew that this was their leader, their strength, who had arrived to keep them safe. They all knew that he _cared, _in some subconscious way, as any citizen of any land somehow _knew_ when confronted with their country as a human being.

If America wasn't there, helping his people…then where was their strength? Where was their hope?

Who was going to help them now?

America was so distracted by his people's troubles and his own helplessness that he didn't notice when the door to the lab opened, then closed. He didn't notice when a stealthy presence stole across the floor behind him, nigh-invisible. At least, that was what the strange intruder seemed to think.

"What are you doing here?"

Dr. Ziegel froze in his tracks at the sound, still clutching the laptop in his arms. Though America wasn't looking at him, the scientist could tell that he had the country's full attention. He stood up straight, dropping all attempts at stealth, and slowly moved in front of the experiment to look him in the eye. When he finally stood in front of America, he was surprised to see his experiment's normally quick, lively eyes dull and almost unresponsive; even when the personification had been tortured with electricity, he'd never lost that little _spark_ that made him who he was. Now, however, there was nothing; nothing that made America…America. The bonds tying the land of the free (ha!) to the table were clearly not the only things holding him down.

Then, something awakened in those eyes, and they flared to life, leaving Ziegel caught in the ferocious gaze of the leader of the free world. There was something innately powerful about that stare—America didn't even have to do anything but _stare _at him, and Ziegel felt afraid. What were they _thinking? _How could they even _consider _thatthey knew _anything _about what they were dealing with? Those eyes—they held more than any mere _human_ could hope to know, to feel, to believe, and here mere humans were, toying with the soul behind them!

"I know who you are." America said, startling Ziegel, who released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. But then he went over the sentence again in his mind, and froze—the lab rat couldn't possibly…_know_, could he?

"O-Oh?" Ziegel sputtered, heat rising to his cheeks.

America simply raised his golden eyebrow. That was all it took for Ziegel to drop the act—America knew, no matter how hard Ziegel tried to keep it under wraps. Now, all he could do was stop insulting America's intelligence and discard his carefully constructed mask.

Ziegel's embarrassed blush disappeared from his face; his shy, hunched posture straightened out considerably; his shoulders pressed back; his meek expression cleared; his face was left a cold, blank slate of indifference. The laptop, formerly clutched in both hands, now settled comfortably against his hip. Now, cold seemed to radiate from his very presence.

The shy, cheerful psychologist had vanished; what was left in his place was a cold, proud man who was perfectly capable of standing up for himself. America immediately decided he didn't like this new Ziegel very much; he'd much preferred the other attitude. However, America would rather have the scientist not lying to him.

"Now. What do you want?" America asked the still man, curiously watching Ziegel's blank eyes.

Ziegel simply stared at him for several seconds, blinking slowly. America, used to unnerving stares from scarier people, didn't flinch, matching the stare calmly and patiently—something that the _impatient _country very rarely found it in himself to do. Just as Ziegel had opened himself to America, America had decided to do the same; to show a side of himself that nobody, save perhaps Russia, had ever seen before. Ziegel easily recognized the attempt to gain his trust; and to his surprise, he found that he did trust the experiment. For some reason, the scientist suspected that America was a terrible liar.

That was why Ziegel found himself answering honestly, instead of dancing around the question. He shifted onto one leg and answered, "I've been tracking you people for years. As soon as I heard they'd captured one, I knew I needed to see you for myself."

America froze, lips parted in surprise, eyes wide. Then, he emitted a shaky laugh. "Hahaha—no, no! There's only one of me. Well, I mean, there used to be the USSR, back when we were fighting for dominance—"

"Don't fuck with me. I know about you and your people." Ziegel interrupted coldly. "Don't even try."

The country's mouth parted slightly again, and then very slowly shut. He looked away, clenching his fists. "…why haven't you told the others yet?" he asked quietly, squeezing his eyes closed, already imagining Canada, England, all the others in this terrible place with him.

"Your brother. Canada. You care about him, don't you?"

America nodded slowly, not liking where this was going.

"You want him to stay safe."

It wasn't a question.

America's eyes widened; he almost choked on empty air. He _wouldn't_. "You wouldn't." Oh, God, he'd had enough to deal with ever since he had come to this awful place. The last thing he needed was a threat to his brother's safety hanging over his head. Even just the thought was enough to make him want to cry.

"Oh, but I would. Who wouldn't do such a thing to have the most powerful country in the world in their pocket?" Ziegel curled his fingers a little tighter around the laptop, his face darkening grimly. He didn't even react when America began straining against his bonds, his face red with pent up rage.

The young nation had been very close to snapping for several days—and honestly, it was quite understandable. America was as tough as they come—if not tougher—but the stress of the past few days had really gotten to him. With the destruction of several major buildings in his capital—which still burned, an angry, pulsating wound in his physical and emotional heart—added to the indignity of being poked and prodded by a group of unusually enthusiastic scientists, America had become fed up. Fed up with sitting down and taking it like a bitch. This was not the way he did things—he was America, the scourge of maturity and well-meaning (or not) hard-asses everywhere!

That, and, unfortunately for his captors, he was 6' 0" and filled to the brim with sheer stupidity, impulsiveness, and the strength to drag an angry Brit's Rolls-Royce _everywhere in the goddamn English countryside _for an hour.

America had allowed them to amuse themselves with the thick straps they'd pulled over his chest, but this newest threat had moved the game to a whole different ballpark. They could fuck with him as much as they liked, but as soon as they went for his family, well…whatever happened was no.

Holds.

Barred.

The bonds snapped like twigs against the might of a furious America.

The young country leapt for Ziegel's throat, his lips curled into an ugly snarl. The flames practically danced in America's eyes, and his outstretched hands moved to close around Ziegel's throat—

—and then the country let out a primal scream of rage, frustration, and pain, because the little snake had pressed the button on his shock collar, like he was a freaking dog, like he could be _controlled—_and he lay there on the floor and convulsed, thrashing weakly as electricity coursed through his body. After several seconds of this, the pain ended, and America panted heavily, curled in on himself, now nursing the deep pain of his insides as well as the dull burning of his heart.

He pressed a shaking hand to his face and cried, thick scalding tears that ran like quicksilver down his tanned face. He knew he was finished.

He had lost, and that there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Ziegel let out a soft, relieved breath, resolving to keep his finger nigh-glued to that button until he left the premises. He'd been stunned by America's quick, livid reaction, and had only just activated the shock collar in time. A second later and his head would've been popped off of his body. Those bonds were created to hold down a genetically mutated full grown man made almost entirely of muscle (true, he had been living off a feeding tube—it had been a work in progress), but the young nation had simply tore through them as though he had been tearing off vines. Easier, perhaps.

They had called that weakling muscle-man a monster. _This _was a _true _monster—and now Ziegel had it trapped under his thumb.

As the country sobbed in defeat on the floor, Ziegel closed his eyes and started to speak. There was something…agonizing about seeing America like this—a wreck on the floor, sobbing brokenly for his brother, himself, and something deeper that a mere mortal, Ziegel was sure, could never understand. Suddenly, Ziegel felt somewhat unsure. He had just made a _monster _cry. What did that make him?

No, he should not care. Ziegel took a deep breath, shook off the strange feeling developing in his gut, and opened his eyes again, his voice emerging with a renewed edge of determination. "This is what I want from you. First, you will not attempt to escape. If you are ever given the chance, you will not take it, or your allies will be on a one-way trip here," He cleared his throat. No response from the country. He continued on:

"Second, you will not say a word about this to _anyone. _You will not hint at it, you will not utter anything to suggest I am anything other than an innocent psychiatrist." He paused again. Still no response.

"Third, you will go along with what I and the other scientists say. If they order you to do something, you will do it. You can complain about it, whine for all I care, but the moment you actually go through with one of your bitch-fits…" Ziegel's eyes narrowed. That was the last one. He waited to see if America would respond.

America peered at him from between two wet fingers, blinking blearily. The country stared at Ziegel for a few seconds, blinked again, let out a long, loud yawn—the scientist's jaw dropped—before he said, "Sure, whatever," and rolled onto his side. He curled up into a ball, and just seconds later Ziegel could hear snoring. America had fallen fast asleep.

After all, being upset is a very tiring thing indeed.

Ziegel was not one to show his heart on his sleeve, but his face was the picture of shock.

He had been right. He still had no _idea _who he was dealing with.

**Hey guys! Update right on time this time. This chapter is, without a doubt, a super filler chapter. But trust me, it gets way, ****_way _****more exciting after this. The next two chapters are very action packed. I was just giving a little background on what was happening, and giving you guys a little bit of an idea of why America had no way of getting out. **

**Again, criticisms are appreciated.**

**On to reviews!**

**Guest: Aw, thank you! You'll get to see what happens to our beloved America, and trust me, it'll be...satisfying, to say the least. **

**The Rambler: Thanks! I would LOVE some cookies! My favorites are snicker doodles (omnomnom)! I'm sorry if I scared you guys :O I was just trying to make things as believable as possible, which I suppose I succeeded at. I do my best to please the fans. Thanks for your review! **

**Dragonfire: Thanks so much for your review! I'm glad you liked the story! I like all the exclamation points!**

**Love from,**

**IceEckos12**


	6. Ground Zero: 6

**Series: Condemned**

**Title: Book One: Condemn the Free**

**Summary: The end of the world is coming, and it all started with the disappearance of the United States of America. **

**Pairings: FrUK, implied RusAme, OC/OC pairings**

**Rating T, may go up**

**Warning: Eventual torture, excessive use of OCs**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia**

Sure enough, when Canada and the others arrived at America's apartment, the two officers were not there, no doubt still investigating the explosion that had been taken place in the Supreme Court building. The other three countries were arguing over something trivial; Canada, used to ignoring him focused on his new, unexpected guest.

"Ms. Lucille, if I could take your coat…?"

Lucille looked over at Canada, a slight smile gracing her delicate, olive-toned face, one hand still clutching her son's. "Please, Mr. Williams. Just Lucy is fine. And yes, please."

As Canada took her coat and carefully hung it up in the closet, he said, "Of course, Lucy. Please, call me Matthew."

"What a gentlemen!" Lucy exclaimed, her smile widening. "Yes, of course, Matthew. You know, Alfred told me almost the exact same thing when I first ran into him."

Canada chuckled. It was exactly the sort of thing his brother would say.

"And I do mean _ran_ into him! I was walking down a hallway, and Alfred came out of nowhere, and _bam!" _She clapped her hands together to emphasize her statement, which made Damian jump. She looked down at him, surprised, and started rubbing his back to comfort him. "Sorry, Dami. But anyway, I was frantic, because I'd just gotten really, really hot coffee all over him, and all of the sugar and cream and biscuits and cra…" Lucy trailed off and glanced down at Damian, who was not paying attention in the slightest, before carefully amending her statement. "Crud. Anyway, it must have been really painful, but he just laughed it off and helped me clean up."

"Alfred's not the type of person who would get angry over an accident _he_ caused." Canada grinned, imagining America at that moment. No doubt his older brother had been at least as sheepish as Lucy had been. "He was asking for it, running all over the place like that."

To Canada's surprise, Lucy let out a bark of laughter. "You two are so alike. When it happened, he said, 'I kinda deserved that, actually. You know, I probably shouldn't've been running around everywhere…"

Canada wasn't quite certain of how to respond to that—while he did admire his brother's tenacity and loyalty, there were other less…commendable traits. A little torn on what to say, he fell back on his standard response—a quick, 'thank you', before quickly turning his attention to the other three countries currently occupying the hallway. They had not made any move to go further inside the house, more intent on bickering than actually getting anything done.

"Why didn't you tell us you were staying nearby, Russia? The detectives could be back any minute! It isn't safe here!"

"I agree with _Angleterre _on this one, uncouth brute as he is."

"_HEY! You watch it, Frog!" _

Russia sounded cold, and ever-so-slightly annoyed, which was never a good thing. The large nation's patience hardly ever wore thin. "It may not look it, but Alfred's apartment is practically a fortress. My hotel wasn't nearly as secure. It was also very close to the explosion, and most likely will be evacuated."

Canada knew that things would probably escalate into a fist fight before long, and he'd only just fixed the door from the last time a brawl had happened between France and England in his house. Their poor apartment would never be able to handle the raw strength of Russia. So before France and England could come up with a proper retort—or another childish insult, as per usual when they'd been outmaneuvered, Canada cut in with a quiet, "Please stop clogging up the hallway. Remember what we're here for?"

They shifted uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at each other. The Canadian sighed in annoyance, but knew that a possible fight was no longer a concern. He turned around and ushered Lucille into the living room, knowing that the other countries would get over their embarrassment and come in…eventually. Wouldn't they?

Then, Canada paused, remembering the centuries-old grudge France and England had for each other, and how their pride kept them from talking to each other and rectifying the situation even a little until the First World War. _Maybe not._

"Uh…" He rubbed the back of his head, and pointed, embarrassed, towards the hall. "I'm going to go…get them. Heh. Okay?"

Lucille looked up from where she'd been helping her son climb onto the couch. "Yeah, sure."

Canada smiled at her again, and gracefully walked into the front hall. As he moved out of Lucille's sight, his smile faded into a frown and his steps became hurried. He needn't have worried, however, because when he got there, he was met with a somewhat amusing and perhaps a little ominous sight.

Russia was standing directly in front of the door, a small smile on his childish, pale face. However the smile was quite creepy and frigid cold; his aura radiated annoyance and murderous intent. England was leaning against the wall on one side, scowling angrily, arms crossed and pressed deeply into his chest. However there was an air of nervousness about him, as though Russia's attitude was beginning to freak him out. France was standing in his usual elegant posture, arms crossed lightly in front of him as he stared coolly at nothing. However he was also showing signs of being nervous; Russia was getting to him.

It was quite awkward.

Canada cleared his throat, causing France and England to jump, but Russia stayed completely still, observing the Canadian through narrowed purple eyes.

"Lucille is waiting for you all. Now can we all calm down and act like the centuries-old adults we are?"

No one moved for a second, but England was the first one to drop his hands and kick off from the wall. He gave France a glare, treated Russia with a nervous glower, and hurried out of the hall and into the room. After Canada gave the other two an expectant look, France followed him. Russia remained behind, and the younger nation was about to leave him to his own devices when Russia's hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder.

"I do not like working with them."

Canada looked at Russia tiredly. "Do you want to help my brother or not? Or are you just here to keep us from finding him?"

"Of course I want to find him." He said honestly, and Canada couldn't help but believe him. The Russian just looked so…honest. "He…is the only one who can compete with my strength. If he were not around, there would be no challenge."

Canada didn't know how to respond to that—wouldn't Russia want to eliminate all threats to him?—but he didn't really care, either way. Russia was a powerful ally to have, and they were going to need someone with resources _and _skills to find America. The only other person Canada could think of right off the bat was China, and the short Asian country didn't exactly have the best relationship with the American right now. Sure, the debt situation had gotten a little better, but they still got into an argument over it every time they met.

So Canada let him do as he liked. As long as the winter country was on their side. But that didn't mean that Canada _trusted _him.

Suddenly, the Canadian realized he'd been glaring at Russia for the last couple seconds, so lost in thought he hadn't moved. Strangely enough neither had the Russian; he'd just stared right back, unblinkingly, even though his hand was still clamped down on his shoulder. Canada shook off the hand, and took a step back. "Then we need to work with them. They're already involved, and no matter how much they argue they've got connections, and they're smart. Please Russia, just put up with them. They're like parents to us."

The larger nation blinked quietly, and then moved around Canada towards the living room. Just before he entered, though, he stopped. "If they hinder this at all, I will not hesitate to kill them."

"You know they can't die."

"I will _make it happen." _

And then Russia left.

Canada stood in the hall for a second later, staring after the Russian tiredly. He didn't like this. He didn't like the stress America's disappearance was causing. The countries were a ticking time bomb, liable to explode at any second. There had been something very…grounding, about America. His naivety kept the other countries _sane, _in a way_—_he seemed so young, and Canada knew that the older countries were subconsciously suppressing their violent nature for 'the children'. But now Canada was the only 'child' left.

God, where was that annoying brat Sealand when they needed him?

When he entered, he was immediately startled by the lightness in the room. Lucille was merrily chatting away to the other countries, and Damian was curled up at her side, playing with the end of her shirt. France and England seemed slightly bemused as she talked, but were pretty involved in the conversation. Russia was just sitting there smiling, and only spoke when Lucille addressed him directly, which was actually pretty often. She seemed to be making an attempt to get Russia involved in the conversation beyond monosyllables, and surprisingly enough it was working.

Humans were so…amazing. Canada almost didn't want to interrupt, but he had to be a good host.

"You guys…want anything? I still have some coffee and pancakes…"

They looked up, and as Canada had thought, Lucille responded first.

"Coffee sounds lovely!" Lucille exclaimed happily. "Do you have any milk for Damian?"

"Pancakes." Damian muttered happily, still playing with the end of his mother's shirt.

"Yeah, we have milk." Canada rubbed the back of his head. "How many pancakes do you want?"

"Two will be fine. Do you need any help?"

Touched by her concern, Canada shook his head, and turned to his other guests. It was a merely formality when he asked them, because he automatically knew what they all wanted. "Would you all like anything?"

"If I recall correctly," France said, stroking his beard thoughtfully, "Alfred kept some high quality wine in his cellar?"

The Northern America brother nodded slightly, though he was slightly reluctant—because there was a small child in the room, and he had _no _idea how Lucille would react to exposing her young son to alcohol. When he glanced at her, she was frowning slightly at France, but didn't protest, so Canada didn't really mind.

"I have my own," Russia said, raising his flask up and smiling slightly. Thank _God _Lucille didn't know what was in there. Canada never understood how Russia wasn't _reeking _of vodka.

"Tea for me is fine." England said primly, and no one was surprised when he ordered his favorite brew. Sometimes it seemed as though the Brit had more _tea _than blood in his veins.

Satisfied that with Lucille in the room the three countries wouldn't mutilate each other, Canada smiled slightly and walked into the kitchen.

Back in the room, Lucille was regaling the attentive countries with some tales from her work at the White House.

"You'd be surprised how completely insane some of these guys get—I mean, as cool as working for the president is, it can get awful boring sometimes, and that means we usually have to come up with our own entertainment." Lucille smiled fondly. "You can't exactly get drunk on the job—though it _has _happened before—and how can you entertain yourself serving a bunch of pompous self-righteous a—" Lucille trailed off, looked at Damien—who caught her gaze innocently—and then amended her statement. "Jerks. But one thing the guys like to do is play strip poker during the breaks. Tis _very _stress relieving." She smiled mischievously.

"Strip poker?" England asked, entranced by the story—just like the other two. They were all leaning in, eager for the next tidbit.

"Yeah. Once, one of the kitchen boys went to work in only his tie, boxers, and hat. It was so funny…even though he nearly got fired." She got a slightly dreamy look in her eyes, but was snapped out of her musings by Damien tugging on her sleeve.

"Pancake?" He asked quietly.

She smiled down at him. "In a minute, Dami. Just be patient. But another thing we like to do on the job is—"

"How can you be so calm about this?" Canada asked, dropping a plate of pancakes on the desk in front of her. She looked up into his face; it was tight and sad, and tired. Very, very tired. For once, he actually looked his age as he clutched the tea, wine, and coffee in his hands. "D.C. was just bombed—why are you acting like nothing happened?"

"M-Matthew…" She murmured, tightening her arm around Damien, but quickly let go because he was wiggling so much, staring with delight at the pancakes. She sighed, watching her son, and slowly reached up and ran her hand through her hair. "It's not like I don't care, it's just…shit happens. No matter what, something bad always happens. It's how you react to situations like these that make it so bad. Yeah, sure, our capital was _bombed…_people _died…_but we'll get over it. It may sound cold, but there's no point crying over spilt milk; the best thing we can do is…react. Figure out who did this, and stop them from ever doing it again. And…

"Be happy that you're alive. Be happy that you have a second chance. At least…you have a tomorrow." Lucille closed her eyes, and put her face in her hands. "I just wish…" She murmured in a muffled voice, the countries straining to hear. "I just wish that Alfred was here. He always seemed to know what to do."

There was dead silence.

Canada sighed, and plopped down onto the couch next to her. "Me too." He said quietly but firmly. "Maybe you can help us find him."

"Of course." Lucille murmured back, and looked up with desperation, and…something _else _in her eyes. "Anything. I'll do anything to help you find him."

"You love him, don't you."

They all turned to look at France; he smiled sadly at her, somber blue eyes understanding and calm. Then, they looked at her as she stared at the nation of romance, before letting out a half-laugh half-sob. "I…I think I do."

No one was quite sure how to react to that (though they were wondering how on _earth _America could've gotten such a nice woman to fall in love with him), and grew even more uncomfortable when she barked another laugh-sob. France seemed to be the only person in the room who understood a broken heart, and he rolled his eyes at the unromantic brutes shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

He was about to rise to his feet to comfort her, when she waved them off and rubbed her eyes. "It's okay. I…I want to help you." She took a deep, steadying breath, and began to tell them about the last time she had seen America.

"I wasn't having all that good a day," She looked up as she remembered. "New presidents are always very stressful, and Dami had gotten sick so I was up all night…_and _I needed to find a baby-sitter for him during the day, because our other one was vacationing in Hawaii. I'd just gotten to work when I found that someone had gotten coffee stains on my uniform, so I had to borrow from someone else—and the only other person who is my size is a complete and total—" She cut off, glanced down at Damien—who was still ripping into the pancakes with gusto—and quickly amended her statement. "Meanie."

"Meanie." Damien echoed cutely, before diving back into his pancakes.

"So I had to make a deal with her about shoes or something, and after that I was running around making sure everything was okay…and then the president wanted drinks and biscuits. Or whatever. And I had to fetch them, which I really didn't want to do, _at all. _But then I hear Alfred arguing with one of the guards—"

"One of the agents at our house from before." Canada piped in shyly. "He admitted it to me."

"He looked like he was about to scat his pants." Lucille said bluntly, and smiled slightly at their amused expressions. "Actually it was more like Alfred was yelling at the guard, who was cowering in fear. It was pretty obvious he was having a really bad day, because usually he wouldn't do something like that. Even after I rescued the guard, he was really troubled…though it seemed like he'd figured out what he was going to do.

"But Alfred seemed to realize that I had been having a bad day too, because he took my tray from me and told me to run home and get some sleep. And…I haven't seen him since. The only thing I've heard…" Lucille took a deep breath, clenching her fingers in her skirt. "I got a call from Jack—our boss—a day after it happened. He told me that…it wasn't my fault, but not to come back to work under any circumstance. He said my life was in danger, and Damien's. I haven't heard from him since."

There was a brief pause, where everyone sat and just absorbed what they'd heard. Lucille stared at the ground dully, deep in thought; while the other countries mulled over it.

Canada shifted uncomfortably in his seat, nibbling his lip, unsure what to do. From what he had heard, things had gone very bad that day for Alfred…if only he knew what _happened! _

"He called me…" Canada said quietly, and flinched when they all turned to look at him. He took a steadying breath, and continued. "The day before, he called me—you know, just to catch up and all. But he was complaining about his boss, too—saying how the guy was bad news and all. I didn't think much of it—you know how he got along with…" Canada glanced over at Lucille, who caught his gaze curiously. "Andy."

Andy, of course, being Andrew Jackson—the two had gotten along rather poorly. Poorly as in, Andrew liked to beat America with his cane, and in return the country affectionately called his president a 'fat old coot'.The others laughed slightly and nodded.

"But…for a moment, it seemed like…he was serious. Like he was actually worried about this guy…but its Alfred, you know? When have we ever taken him seriously?" He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I really wish I had taken him seriously. Then maybe this wouldn't have happened."

"Matthew…" England said quietly, staring at the young nation sympathetically.

"He's my brother! I should have realized something bad would happen…" Canada pressed his face into his hands and hiccupped quietly. France responded immediately; he rose to his feet and smoothly glided over to the couch, wrapping his arms around the younger nation.

"Shh, mon cher. Alfred would not want you to cry over him."

Canada just let out another sob. "But…every night, I have these dreams! That he's hurt, that he's distressed…and…I…" He buried his head into France's shoulder, crying shakily.

Russia and England glanced at each other darkly, knowing that there was a deeper meaning to these words. It wasn't well known, but Canada and America had a sort of…psychic connection, if that. Even they didn't know what it was, but it was highly likely that if Canada was having nightmares about America in danger, it was highly likely that he _was _in trouble.

Lucille, of course, didn't get it. She quickly walked over and sat on the other side of Canada, trying to placate him. "They're just dreams, Matthew. Wherever he is, I'm sure your brother is fine."

She really didn't understand why he started crying even harder.

* * *

"I don't want this to leave the room, you understand?" The president glanced at the man walking beside him, watching as he nodded quickly. Satisfied that the weasily little man wouldn't betray him—no one was stupid enough to cross him—the president turned away, only to stop dead in his tracks when the man spoke up.

"But sir…" The man flinched as the president whipped around and glared angrily. He nearly took a step back, but gulped and stood his ground. "I do not understand why this is necessary. Surely there is some other way to do this…?" His voice trailed off into a mere whisper.

The president observed him for a few moments, black eyes boring into him, looking for any sign of treachery or disobedience. Deciding that it was just an innocent question, the president rolled his eyes and began to talk. "I can understand why you would be skeptical Mr. Corey, but I can assure you that this is the best way to make the people turn to me. It was desperation that led the people to believe in many very unpopular leaders. If you recreate the circumstance that led to such a thing happening…" The president snapped his fingers.

Feeling a little braver now that he seemed to be having a reasonable conversation with man who was his boss, Mr. Corey ventured to say, "Are you sure you are going to be able to lead them on like that? Get them to believe such a thing?"

"How could they not?" He replied simply. "They will need something to believe in. And we are going to step in and help just when all hope seems lost. Do you understand?"

"I…guess I do." Mr. Corey muttered, though his conscience still niggled in the back of his mind, telling him it was wrong. "But is it the right thing to do? Even if it is for the greater good…"

"The end far outweighs the means." The president responded patiently, though there was a note of annoyance in his voice. The conversation was obviously over. "Just get it done."

Mr. Corey looked at him for a second longer, catching his gaze—before looking back to the ground. He took in a soft breath. "I understand, sir."

The president smiled slightly at him, nodding his head in false gratitude. "Thank you, Mr. Corey. None of this could be done without your aid. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go to my office to get ready."

"Good bye, sir." He responded desolately as he watched the president's retreating back, before sighing and turning back down the hall. He did not like this; he didn't want to do this in the slightest. Who knew how many people were going to die? He'd thought that with the other major buildings in D.C. demolished peoples morale's would be bad enough—perhaps this was overkill.

But he couldn't say no, no matter what his conscience said. He had committed fully to this not so long ago, and he believed in what they were trying to do. His family was so deeply intertwined with the cause…he was the boss now, _had _been the boss for ten years; he was the one who was making it all happen, and he was happy about that…but did the end really justify the means? He wasn't really so sure anymore.

_No turning back._

He glanced around, and quickly walked into a nearby closet, heart bouncing and trembling in his chest, afraid of being discovered. He ignored the scuff marks on the door—someone had tried to kick it down recently—and locked it from the inside, before withdrawing his phone from his pocket.

…no signal.

Mr. Corey sighed angrily and put his phone away, suddenly feeling very foolish. No one was here; he shouldn't be worried about being discovered. Completely ridiculous notion. God, all of this crap was making him paranoid. _One last job, _He thought to himself, closing the door behind him and heading outside. _Just one last job. Then I'm retiring._

What seemed to be only seconds later Mr. Corey arrived outside, palming his phone in his pocket. The gardeners had all left several weeks ago, so the once trimmed and beautiful grounds were out of control, the flower beds overrun with weeds.

The phone was in his hand. He stared at it blankly, realizing that with this one last call…he was not only condemning himself to a life of guilt, but also making sure his dream was realized.

_No backing out._

He slowly dialed the number.

_No second thoughts._

He raised the phone, trembling, to his ear.

_Do not look back._

The ringing stopped, but only one word came out.

"Speak."

Mr. Corey hesitated, and then rattled off the password.

The voice instantly became more polite, but still gruff and low. "Is it time, Mr. Corey?"

He could call off the plan, right now. Everything would be okay if he just called them off.

"Yes. It is. Prepare the bombers. Washington D.C. is going to burn."

**OOOOOOOO cliffie WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN.**

**I know I posted this chapter a day early, but I decided to be nice [read: impatient]. I left you all with a rather boring filler. This one's not much better, but it's the segue to the BIG big action that's coming up. Yeah I said that last time but OH WELL. This time for real. Because this is the second to last chapter before the finale of part one.**

**Now on to reviews:**

**Dragonfire78: Sometimes I feel that I use OCs too much, but then again, it IS my story. Plus, there are so many routes to explore, and I find that really fascinating. Same with the plot-I usually have a final point in mind, but along the way it's all fair game. ANYTHING could happen! Thanks for your input! **

**urufushinigami: Awwww why thank you! I try hard to make sure my plots boggle the mind. People find it more interesting that way! Thanks so much!**

**The Rambler: NAAAAH Russia won't be saving him anytime soon ;) I have big plans for dear 'Merica. Hi Prussia. Poland says 'like' back.**

**OnyxBunneraffe: ERMEGERDI'msomeantomycharacters. Thankyouforrecognizingthis. Ican'teven. **

**Till next time,**

**IceEckos12 **


	7. Ground Zero:7

**Series: Condemned**

**Title: Book One: Condemn the Free**

**Summary: The end of the world is coming, and it all started with the disappearance of the United States of America. **

**Pairings: FrUK, implied RusAme, OC/OC pairings**

**Rating T, may go up**

**Warning: Eventual torture, excessive use of OCs**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia**

"He tore through those straps like they were made of paper. Are you _sure _that these will hold him?"

Dr. Koliabskaia glanced over at Shay and narrowed his eyes. Unconcerned, she stared right back, expression calm and collected. He held her gaze for a few more seconds, before shrugging and turning back to the titanium alloy cuffs on the table in front of him. "I do not know. He is much stronger than we originally assumed…but I do hope that these will hold him. They were very expensive."

"What did Ziegel do that…" Dr. Von Arx paused, searching for the right term. "Offended him so? The subject has…always seemed…"Again, he began fumbling with the English words, face screwed up in concentration.

"The word you are looking for, Von Arx, is passive. Unusually optimistic, despite his situation. And I do not know." Alistair said absentmindedly, then sighed and mournfully nudged the remains of what had once been some expensive, high-quality straps. "Do you think we can reuse these? It would be a ridiculous waste of money if we did not…"

Shay answered on instinct, forgetting for just a second that this was her archrival and she was supposed to hate him with a passion. "I don't see why not." Then she blinked in surprise, mouth snapping shut with a soft _click. _Alistair looked equally surprised, his grey-blue eyes widening slightly—though Shay could not see it. They were facing away from each other.

Koliabskaia glanced at Von Arx, who caught the Russian's eye with a deadpan expression on his face. The taller man rolled his eyes, and the Swiss man nodded minutely. Translation: _Oh -my-God-it-is-so-obvious-that-those-two-are-in-love-I-just-wish-they'd-stop-denying-it-and-make-out-already. _

Well, not exactly. Von Arx didn't know enough English to construct a sentence like that without pausing to think about it, Koliabskaia would never say a sentence that long, and neither of them liked English slang very much. But that was the general idea.

Alistair curled his fingers on the table, jaw working ever so slightly. Then, he said in an angry tone—though it seemed halfhearted—"I wasn't talking to you."

Shay tilted her chin higher into the air and snorted. "I simply wanted to give our other more _honorable _coworkers a more secure state of mind. Who ever said I answered for _you?"_

And, as though agreeing with each other in some odd way, the two returned to what they were going without protest. Again, Koliabskaia and Von Arx rolled their eyes, and returned to their jobs as well.

After a few minutes of complete silence, Alistair spoke up again, voice soft and worried. "Ziegel seemed…very shaken, after he was nearly killed by America. Did anyone check to make sure he was okay?"

It was a well-known fact that the only person Alistair seemed to be close to—besides Shay, of course—was Ziegel. The little American scientist had wormed his way into the older man's heart, made him smile again, which was something that had not happened for a very long time. There was something about his childish ways that made Alistair very protective of him; he had even come to consider himself a second father to Ziegel, and he didn't throw feelings around like that lightly.

Even so, it still surprised some people that he could tear himself away from his work long enough to care. Shay herself gave Alistair an odd look, her expression unreadable as she stared at the man. Koliabskaia just sort of blinked his big grey eyes, but gave no other outward reaction. Von Arx stared at the German in shock, mouth open slightly. Alistair simply ignored their less than welcome reactions and continued to stare at everyone, lips thin and eyes narrowed.

"I do not think so." Koliabskaia interjected smoothly into the awkward silence after he noticed that his other two colleagues weren't going to answer. "Why don't you go check on him? We are not all that busy here. It is nothing we cannot handle."

Alistair stared at the Russian as though he was absolutely insane. "Are you mad? Leave my research? No." (The others rolled their eyes at this; he never changed) "I shall call someone and have _them_ check up on him. He should be fine."

Meanwhile, Ziegel was not fine.

He was worried. He had heard many stories about the human of the country America; that he was stupid, that he was easy to manipulate, that he was the least intimidating country out there, an idiotic buffoon. This had _definitely _not been the case. For a split second—when America had gone for his neck—Ziegel had been so _frightened, _a scream rising in the back of his throat. Not because he was being attacked by a superpower who had just ripped up their strongest restraints, but because he had seen something primal and ancient and _terrifying _in America's eyes; the kind you only see when family is threatened. The animalistic rage in the country's eyes…that had been absolutely petrifying, and it was something you couldn't, _shouldn't _contain, a creature that was always meant to be free. And now…he was getting this sensation in his gut, like he had just wronged someone who had trusted him dearly. He knew that he shouldn't be feeling something like this—America had never trusted him, that was obvious. It was almost instinctive, this guilt.

Ziegel curled his fingers over his heart, staring into the clean, organized space that was his desk, trying to make sense of what was going on. Finally he said, "I only did what I needed to do. This is for the good of our research. There's nothing I should have done differently."

Then he sighed and began rubbing his temples, trying to think of something other than the country sitting passively in the room across the building. _I'm very tired. _His mind began, making small talk with himself. _I stayed up all night watching the news, just making sure that there weren't going to be any more attacks. That was quite frightening; I wonder who did it…who would be crazy enough to bomb Washington DC?_

_Speaking of the news…_

Ziegel swiveled his chair to the side, tapping his finger on the wooden desk beside him, using the other hand to open up the laptop. The news was still streaming live from DC, giving updates on the casualties, injuries, and so on and so forth. So far over a hundred people had died, and more were still being dug up from the rubble in the buildings. He ignored the announcement about the president coming to make a statement later that afternoon, and unmuted the sound. After a few seconds of listening, he swiveled around to his personal coffee machine and pressed the 'on' button.

_"…devastated…"_

His head bobbed slightly up and down to a tune he was humming as he opened up the top of the coffee machine and inserted his favorite roast.

_"…terrorist connections…"_

As he waited for his sweet elixir of life to finish, Ziegel glanced over at the picture on his screen—

And leaned forwards in shock as he saw it.

There in the background, falling as though in slow motion, was something fat, long, and pointed. Ziegel's eyes tracked its descent, which was quite fast, but it seemed like hours that the bomb fell; he reacted in the exact same way, jumping up from the chair and pushing it to the ground with the back of his knees, slamming his hands on the desk—which was all very fast, but to him it felt as though he couldn't move fast enough.

He flinched when the bomb disappeared and time sped up again. His eyes were glued to the screen in horror as the image shook violently and the newscaster flinched, covering his head with his arm. There were screams—shouts—and then another bomb dropped onto Washington D.C.

A scream echoed throughout the wing.

Ziegel whipped around and flew out of his office just in time to miss the third bomb that crashed to the ground.

England jerked awake when something exploded in his ear.

He rolled until his back slammed into something—the couch, if he guessed correctly—and pressed his hands over his head. He had completely forgotten about the War raging above his head, bombs raining over his beloved city every day. His fingers clenched over his heart in preparation for the pain he was about to feel, gritting his teeth in pain and fear. _This Blitz…damn Krauts! _

The bomb shelter. Alfred had come over one day and built him a bomb shelter, usually beaming face somber and morose—because he _knew _that he should be helping. _Hell, he wants to fight._ England smirked. _His president isn't willing to go to war, but Alfred wants nothing more than to get on the front lines and annihilate the Germans. _But America had been helping England as much as he could on the side —and that included the sturdy little bomb shelter America had built, the one with the tiny American flag painted on the inside.

He needed to go out and save his people. Some of them were probably huddled in the streets, trying not to get bombed. Wearily his lids rose a bit, emerald shards glittering in the shadows.

Emerald green met panicking violet.

"_Canada." _He gasped out. _When had Canada gotten here? _But still, he was in danger! They needed to get to the shelter immediately. "We need to get to the bomb shelters. We're not safe here."

The house rocked when a bomb exploded nearby. The two of them flinched.

After he recovered, Canada reached forwards and gripped England's shoulders. "Arthur." He said firmly, though it could barely hear it around the ringing in their ears. "We _need _to get going. This isn't London, we're in Washington DC."

"We're not in America." Arthur muttered. "Alfred is not getting bombed. This is the Blitz, Matthew, don't you understand?" He suddenly looked up to squint at Canada. "Did you nearly get bombed? Do you have a concussion?"

Canada recoiled, staring at England in shock as though he had said something that was completely illogical. The younger country looked around, biting his lip, looking like he was about to cry, before he rose to his feet—rocked with another explosion—and scurried across the room. England pushed himself up to follow Canada—it was too dangerous to be walking around like that—when he realized that he wasn't in his home.

Soft fabric couch. Several easy chairs. Cream colored walls. Oak shelves on one wall, holding several things that looked breakable—though Canada had obviously moved them to the floor so they wouldn't fall. Suddenly, England was in the present again. _It's 2020, not 1940. _England jumped to his feet, back hunched, and looked around.

France was standing worriedly next to Canada, who was talking softly to Lucille. The mortal was huddled in a corner, what looked like tear-tracks streaking down her face. However she had a determined look on her face, and wasn't panicking all that badly. England couldn't see Damien—_wait, I think that might be him…_the little boy had been hidden in his mother's arms as she protected him.

_Now where is Russia? _He wondered, looking around for the tall, frigid cold country. _ He's had a worse time with stuff like this than I have…it would make sense that he would try to get under something—a desk or a table or something, trapped in his own nightmares like I was…_There was only one thing in this room big enough to house Russia under it; the desk in the corner. England crouched so low he was practically crawling and walked as quickly as he could over to there, and sure enough Russia was huddled in a little ball under it, hands tight over his ears, eyes squeezed shut.

"Russia." England gently touched Russia's hand, who flinched back, his closed eyes clenching tighter with fear. As gently as he could, England pressed his hands to Russia's and pried them away from the taller nation's ears. Now that the Russian could hear him, England began talking in a low, hurried voice. "We're in Washington DC, we need to go. If we don't Lucille and Damien will die. We need to get out of Washington DC."

England kept repeating this to the stricken country, who looked very disbelieving and kept shaking his head, denying England's words, sure he was trapped in a nightmare. England was about ready to give up and leave him behind—Russia could take care of himself, that was for certain—when France came up behind him, looking around nervously.

"_Angleterre_." He murmured, startling England. "We must get going. How is _le russe_?"

England sat back on his heels and sighed. "He won't listen to me. We might have to leave him behind." Noticing France's disbelieving look, he snorted and rolled his eyes. "He can take care of himself, he doesn't even _like _us."

There was a small shriek when a bomb dropped unpleasantly close to the apartment. The countries dropped to the floor and covered their heads—all except for Russia. The tall country's eyes flew open at the sound of the scream, waking him from his day terrors. He took a second to control his emotions, and then like a ghost he slipped out from under the desk and rose to his full height, towering like a giant in the small room. He walked slowly across the room, and stopped to stand before Lucille and Damien, who were huddled together in a terrified ball. Canada was sitting next to them, hands covering his head.

The country simply stood there for several seconds, just staring at them; Lucille seemed to realize that there was someone standing in front of them, because she opened her eyes and looked up at Russia—and there was fear in his eyes. But not of him, or for herself; for her son, for the other countries, of the bombs—she was scared for all the right reasons.

Another explosion rocked the house, and Lucille broke eye contact and pressed her face into her son's curly-haired head.

Russia bent over and picked the both of them as though they were light as a feather, holding them tight against his chest. Then, he turned to the other countries, who were all lying on the floor, and began walking around nudging them with his foot. "Get up." He commanded to the now silent room; there was a small reprieve in the explosions. "We must get out of the United States. Something is going to happen, and we need to figure out what we're getting into before we get involved. I am positive we can make it to Canada in time."

They began rising to their feet, staring at Russia in bewilderment; just seconds before he had been huddled on the floor, more terrified than the rest of them. But now he was standing strong, holding Lucille and Damien in his hands, looking and acting like…

A hero.

"All right." England said, startling France and Canada. "I know someone nearby who owns a private airstrip nearby. He owes me a favor. We can make it before they escape, I think."

France stepped forwards, his face serious and solemn. "We can take my car, it is the fastest. I doubt anyone will care about the speed limit at a time like this."

"What if the roads are unusable?" Canada butted in, eyes wide with fear. However he was still doing his best to contribute.

"Then we run." England responded determinedly, narrowing his eyes. "We _will _get there in time. I will make sure that we do."

Russia turned around and began loping towards the door, and it took only a second for the large country's powerful kick to send the door flying down the stairs—though his movements were so smooth and precise he barely jostled his precious cargo. England followed close behind, eyes searching and weary, a small handgun clenched tightly in one hand. France was the next one out the door; he peered outside, face pinched with exhaustion. Canada brought up the rear, wielding a small knife and a gun.

He paused at the top of the stairs to look out at the blaze that had once been Washington DC...and reached out to steady himself on a railing, horrified at the sight.

People were screaming, and the air stank of heat, death and burned flesh. Several buildings were burning around them, the sky dark with giant metal birds that dropped raining fire on the panicked population. There was no answering fire, nothing to stop the bombs raining down from the sky—Canada didn't know why, he didn't really care, because _my God there's so much death and Alfred—_

Oh, America.

Canada was probably about to have a breakdown when he suddenly felt two soft, warm hands on his shoulders. He looked up to see France's sad blue eyes staring into his own violet ones.

"_Mon petit Canada._" He murmured, French gliding smoothly off his tongue. _"America would want you to stay strong—for him. Please, we can mourn later, but for now we must press on."_

Canada's eyes filled with tears, and ignoring the world around them—ignoring the bomb that dropped a block away, ignoring the earth-rattling rumble that accompanied it, he wrapped his arms around France. The older nation was so surprised he didn't react at first, and by the time he did Canada had already pulled away, a new determined expression on his face.

"Let's go." Canada said quietly, and walked down the stairs, not turning to look back at France, who followed him hesitantly, not sure whether the young nation would break down again or not. Judging by his hard, cold, _dead _expression—he would not.

"Come on!" England called from the car, waving them over. For a minute he watched them approach, and then got back into the driver's seat. Russia had already claimed shotgun, and he was leaning back in his seat, talking quietly to Lucille. Damien was still huddled in her lap, looked confused and frightened, tear tracks running down his face.

"Oh, Russia." France sighed. "I thought I told you that _I _had called shotgun."

The larger nation smiled as France and Canada slid into the back, eyes closed pleasantly. "First come, first serve."

Still grumbling, France crossed his arms over his chest and pouted, flinching when another explosion rocked his eardrums. As soon as his ears cleared, he leaned over to talk to Canada. "Are you alright?"

The young nation—who had been staring ahead at nothing since the ride, not even wincing when the explosion happened—turned to look at France. He was startled by Canada's apathy; his…emotionless stare.

"…I'm fine." He whispered, before looking straight ahead again.

Unconvinced, France reached out to touch the Canadian's shoulder—only to be stopped when the car swerved around an impression in the road.

"Sorry!" England shouted, only to make another on-a-dime turn, swearing enough to make a sailor blush.

Russia's smile never dimmed and his eyes never opened; the only sign that he had been affected by the crazy driving was the slight greenish tinge on his face. "England, comrade." He said through gritted teeth. "Do you think you could be a little more careful?" The sickly shade of his face deepened slightly as the swerved violently around a corner. "Please?"

"They're going to shut down the airports very soon, Russia." He grunted in response. "We just need a ride out of here. That's all. We'll fly to New York, Chicago—anywhere away from here. Something is going to happen in America, and the last thing we need is to be right in the middle of it. So yes, I need to be quick." The smile England sent Russia's way was slightly smug, as though he knew what was going on with the Russian and was enjoying it immensely.

Russia leaned back in the seat and groaned, holding his stomach. This was going to be a long ride.

For a bit the ride was exactly like this; England would make a tight turn, Russia would groan, and the passengers in the back seat would try not to get killed. There were a few close calls, but they turned out alright. For a moment it seemed as though everything would turn out alright, that they would make it out of the city with nothing but a couple bruises and a mildly sick Russia.

They had just left the city when a bomb exploded right in front of them.

There was a high-pitched scream, though the others could barely hear it around the melodious sound of crunching car. They rolled once—twice—the only thing they could comprehend was spinning; heat—the crunching of metal—more screams—

And then they stopped.

Warm liquid was running down Lucille's head; she felt dizzy, and disoriented, and couldn't quite focus on anything. Well, not until something moved in her arms, and a terrified little whimper broke through to her brain.

"Mommy?"

She ignored the blood running down her face to look at her son, trying to look unharmed and unaffected. This was slightly ruined by the red seeping down her face and the slightly dazed look in her eyes. "I'm alright, dear." She murmured, pressing her lips into his forehead. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

He lifted his arm, where a bruise was already forming. "Owie." He said unhappily, lip beginning to tremble.

She was about to respond with a relieved laugh and a kiss to make it all better, when she realized that the others in the car weren't talking. She blinked and began looking around the car—which had miraculously landed right-side up—trying to figure out what was going on.

Canada was conscious, his violet eyes staring dazedly into nothing; probably a concussion. There were cuts on his arm and his cheek, but he looked otherwise unharmed. France was also awake, except he was infinitely more alert than the other two in the back. He was slightly bruised and had cuts everywhere, but had obviously hadn't gotten caught in the worst of the blast. He was starting to unbuckle himself, obviously to check on the two in the front.

They were so much worse.

England had obviously fallen unconscious, blood trickling down the side of his head. There were shards of glass sticking out of his pale skin, bruises already starting to form along one side of his face. Russia wasn't much better, though he wasn't as bad as England; he was blinking, confused, and he was covered in small wounds and little slivers of glass. They had been in the front, and the whole windshield had been blown out; they had been caught in the face by it.

And, oddly enough, the car was still running.

Lucille and France seemed to realize this at the exact same time. They glanced at each other, talking quietly with their eyes—before France jumped out of the car. Lucille still had to take care of Damien, and she could also watch over the very dazed Canada.

France took charge and opened the door on Canada's side—it took him a second, it was stuck slightly—before he leapt over the catatonic man and jumped to the pavement, wobbling unsteadily. The Frenchmen took a moment to study the car, before he nodded slightly as though satisfied it would still take them to where they wanted to go. Then he opened the front—hesitated—and gingerly unbuckled Arthur, lifted him from his seat, and carried him towards the back.

France stared into England's unconscious face, a great sadness rising in his chest. England had never been this still before, this vulnerable—well, not for a very long time. It wasn't right, to see him like this—pale and wounded and helpless. France could've been groping him right now (though the Frenchman would never do something so…un-chivalrous) and England wouldn't have been able to do a thing about it—which was wrong on so many levels. France's very _existence _was based on his need to annoy England—and to see him so weak…

They needed to get out of America. Today.

France nudged Canada, trying to get him to respond—and was rewarded with a dazed, vacant stare. "_Mon petit Matthew." _He said, nudging the Canadian harder. "Help me get _Angleterre _into the back. We must drive quickly if we are to make it to the place on time."

He simply stared at France for a moment, as though he didn't understand the question—and then Lucille reached over Canada's lap and opened up her arms. France quickly placed England's shoulders on her hands, helping her support the Englishman's weight. That was when Canada realized what France wanted him to do, and he quickly began helping their job.

"Sorry." Canada muttered.

"It is fine." France smiled at the younger nation, putting his hand over the Canada's. "You are still disoriented. Get some rest."

He stared at the older nation for a moment, his eyes unusually intense, and then abruptly sat back and looked away—Lucille thought he might have muttered something like, 'I can still help.'

After making sure that England was laid out comfortably—though 'comfortably' had a little wiggle room, obviously, because Damien had decided that the Englishman's stomach was a much better seat than his mother's lap—France slammed the door and slid smoothly into the driver's seat. He glanced over at Russia—the tall pale nation was still disoriented, oblivious to his surroundings—and sighed, before pressing his foot down on the pedal. The car groaned unhappily, but complied.

The rest of the ride was relatively uneventful, and now that they were out of the DC city limits they left the bombs and the explosions behind and—luckily—the Brit had given France the directions to the private airstrip before he had gotten hit, just in case. England had woken up, and was currently in the backseat, quietly trying to recover from his brief unconsciousness. Russia had managed to focus again, and he was helping France get to there, though every few minutes he would shake his head, like a dog trying to shake off water. Canada also regained his concentration, and was playing with Damien, singing quietly in French.

France turned the wheel, and they rolled into a parking lot near a small, secluded building. He smiled and leaned back in his seat, running a hand tiredly through his hair. "We are here."

It took mere seconds for them all to get out of the car; England was slightly wobbly, and was leaning on Canada, though the young nation was supporting himself just as much as he was supporting England. Russia seemed mostly unaffected, though there was a wobble in the nation's usually graceful step. Lucille was the one who seemed the most stable—besides Damien, though the young boy was sitting happily atop Russia's giant shoulders—and was gently talking to Canada and England, trying to get them going.

It was slow going; England and Canada kept stopping, though they were getting better—after the first two times, though, Russia had swooped down and picked up England, ignoring the Brit's indignant yelp. After a minute of walking, though, England had stopped muttering angrily; they were making much better time.

The small building was cool, and filled with people; they all obviously had the same idea as the countries did. There was a lot of crying, and praying, and the general abandon of sanity. Once France had to lean down and help some poor soul who was nearly getting trampled by the amount of people in the place.

It was times like these that the countries were so happy they were more important than everyone else.

"Excuse me." Russia gently placed England back on the ground and reached over to touch the shoulder of the nearest person who looked like he worked there he saw, who looked tired and cranky at the lack of organization.

He turned to look at Russia, that annoyed look still on his face. "Yes?" He said shortly. "We're very busy, as you can see—"

The man paused and stared at the small group, eyes wide. Even when they were wounded and weak, the countries were quite formidable people—more like a pack of wolves that had just been in a fight. Their auras were exposed and raw because of their lack of control; it was impossible for the poor employee to not be absolutely terrified.

He flinched when the Russian reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an ID. "You see, we are important people." He smiled pleasantly. "We will be on the next airplane out of this place."

Sure, they countries felt a little bad flaunting their status. But frankly they did not care; though it may sound cold, they had seen people die a million times before, and they would see people die a million more times before their lives ended. However their people needed them, just as they needed their people. They couldn't get involved in what looked like the beginning of a giant war. They needed to get outside.

"Y-Yes sir." The employee stammered, and led them through the crowd. "Well—I mean—there aren't any planes left, but I think there are still private aircrafts..."

"We will not force anyone out of their seats." Russia said. As he did he looked worriedly over at Canada, who met his gaze with stricken violet eyes. They followed the man through the throngs of people, and Canada pushed forwards to get to Russia.

"What will we do if there aren't enough seats?" He whispered.

"Lucille and Damien can share a seat." Russia murmured back. "You and I do not truly need seats—you and I could go over the border and I could travel through Alaska to get to Mother Russia. However Francis and Arthur will need seats."

"They'll be closing the border after all the flights go out."

The countries turned to look at the employee, who looked vaguely embarrassed. "Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear. No one will be able to get in or out of the United States after this flight—they're trying to contain the people who bombed DC—if they're still in the states. Anyone still in the air will be shot down."

The countries did not speak. They simply looked at each other with wide eyes—and prayed that there were enough seats for all of them.

"There's only room for three more, I'm sorry." A female helicopter pilot said, staring at their group with sad but firm eyes. "You two could share a seat…" She nodded at Damien and Lucille, who breathed a sigh of relief—the countries had told her that either way she was getting out of the United States—before looking worriedly at the other countries. "But I'm afraid there's only room for two more."

"I will stay." Russia said immediately. "It is more likely that I will be able to get out of the states than Arthur or Francis."

"I'll stay, too." England said determinedly, pushing away from Canada's steadying hand and straightening up. "I'm going to look for Alfred—and it would be interesting to see how this unfolds."

"No, Arthur, you can't!" Canada cried. "I have a better chance of getting out of the United States if something bad happens—and it's my brother! I should be here!"

Lucille seemed to sense that this was family business and stepped back. Russia followed her example.

"Do you know who you look like? Who you look _exactly _like?" England growled fiercely, cutting off Canada. "Alfred. Do you know whose face is plastered as a terrorist across the country? Alfred's. Which house did those two detectives come to? Yours and Alfred's. Who are they suspicious of? You. The capital was just _bombed, _Matthew. You and Alfred are going to be public enemy number _1." _

The young nation stared at England, mouth dropped, eyes wide with hurt. He couldn't find an argument to that; there was no way he could combat what England had just said, because it was _true. _Finally, he jerked his head down, and said in a heartbreakingly soft, pleading tone, "I just—I can help."

England's face seemed to age ten years at the sound of it, but he continued doggedly, in a gentler voice than before. "How are you supposed to help your brother if you're in jail, or worse?"

Canada paused, opened his mouth—and whipped away, marching angrily towards the stationary helicopter. England could just barely see a tear dripping down the young nation's face.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then England sighed and rubbed his face. "It's better this way." He murmured sadly, staring at the empty doorway where Canada had disappeared.

"I'll be leaving as well, I assume." France said mournfully.

"You always knew that you were going to be going." England responded quietly, eyes sliding to France's.

"I suppose I did." The Frenchman stepped forwards, and in a completely non-romantic way wrapped his arms around England, pulling him into a tight hug. "You…take care of yourself, do you understand me?"

England froze for a second, before relaxing into the embrace. "You too, frog." He paused. "And…tell Matthew that I'm sorry, and that I love him."

France nodded into England's shoulder. "Anything." For a moment they just stood there, wrapped up in the moment. Then, hesitantly, the Frenchman spoke. "Since…this might be the last time we see each other, _Angleterre_…would you…?"

"Yes." He whispered and tilted his head back slightly, closing his sad, beautiful emerald eyes. France leaned down to close the distance between them, and—

Russia stood in front of Lucille, smiling down at her, and placed a very squirmy Damien in her arms. "Thank you very much, Miss Lucille. You and your son have made my day much brighter."

"It's not a problem." Lucille grinned back, and placed her son on the ground, curling her hand around his. "Here, one sec..." She suddenly began rummaging around in her pockets, and finally came out with a pen and small square of paper. Scribbling something on the blank, slightly crinkled square, Lucille folded the note and tucked it into Russia's front pocket. "When you get the chance, call this number. Any time you need to talk, I'm there."

Then, without hesitation she hugged him.

Russia tensed up, staring at the space she had been just seconds before, surprised beyond belief. She wasn't…scared of him. She didn't care that he was taller than most doors and was insanely creepy; she had not even hesitated. And her son, as well; the little boy was currently clutching onto his legs, happily rubbing his face in the coarse material.

With a soft smile Russia folded his arms around Lucille, encasing her in a cold, happy embrace.

"Of course I will call." He murmured.

"Be careful." Lucille stepped back and looped her hand around Damien's again. "Don't do anything stupid, you hear?"

He nodded happily, and watched as she hugged England before disappearing into the helicopter, a feeling of warm happiness tingling in his gut.

As they watched the machine take off, England and Russia stood side-by-side, pleasant feelings fading with the large metallic bird that sped away in the sky.

"…I hope we have not made a terrible mistake." Russia said quietly.

England, still staring at the rapidly disappearing dot, sighed and looked away. He turned around, and began heading back towards the building, wind whipping at his hair. "What will we do?"

Russia turned around and started to follow him, easily keeping up with the shorter nation. "We will find America, and we will help him restore order. Unless of course…" Violet eyes darkened. "He has turned traitor."

The though had briefly crossed England's mind, before it had been quickly discarded. "He wouldn't do that. Would he?"

"I suspect there is a darker side to our young, innocent comrade." Russia said simply. "We cannot dismiss the idea."

England took a minute to think about this. Russia watched him calmly, expectantly. Finally, England said, "If that's true…" Emerald eyes darkened. "Then we will not let him win. If we must fight him, we will."

_"Mr. President is prepared to make a statement about the bombing in Washington DC." It was a different newscaster this time, a woman with frazzled blonde hair and blue eyes rimmed with red. She had obviously been crying. _

_"My fellow Americans."_

_The president looked unruffled, completely calm in the face of the situation. However he also looked somber and sad, eyes deep with emotion. _

_"A great tragedy has befallen our country today. The capital of the United States has been bombed. Hundreds of people have died. People sit in their homes all over the world, their eyes glued to the television screen—to America. In the words of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, this is a day that will live forever in infamy."_

_He paused, rubbed his eyes, and continued. _

_"Today our country was not attacked by a terrorist group, or a small group of people. This was an organized attack. Somebody very powerful and very strong has been planning this for a while, for where else would these people get such high-tech weaponry?" The president stopped for a moment, and let that question hang before continuing. "Something was going to happen today, something right under our very noses. Alfred F. Jones, a young man we apprehended earlier in the week, was part of a group that met every year in different places all over the world. He met with ambassadors from different countries—and he had enough power and authority that he could go anywhere in Washington DC without being stopped._

_"No, this wasn't just some unorganized attack. We have been betrayed by the rest of the world." He stopped to let that statement sink in. "We have evidence that he has plotted with these treacherous countries to try and destroy us; they say they grow tired of our foolishness and our insolence. They mean to tear the country apart and then pick up the pieces, bit by bit._

_"But we will not let that happen."_

_The president stood just a tad straighter, eyes filled with passion and the promise of revenge._

_"As soon as we crush these…menaces within our own country, we will retaliate. We will not just stand by and let these other countries try to destroy us!" At this, he shook his fist. "We will show the rest of the world just how strong we are!"_

_"This injustice will not go unpunished!"_

_The applause was thunderous, and as the president turned away from the camera to go take care of matters elsewhere, no one caught his smug, triumphant smirk. _

_He had won the first battle. However even though he had, the war was not over._

_The President of the United States had work to do._

**So...last chapter of the first part. I told you it would get a little exciting :). **

**One thing about this chapter-this is where Canada's character, to me, changes drastically, which will influence the second half a lot. And...yeah. That's all I have to say about it. **

**Anyway, after this I'm taking a month hiatus before the next chapter. The second part is just as good, if not better, in my opinion. **

**Now, on to reviews!**

**Dragonfire78: Wow, thanks! I tried to make things as emotionally painful as possible, so mission accomplished. **

**The Rambler: Haha, I love torturing my favorite characters too! And (shhh spoilers) we actually don't see America for...quite a bit, so. Aw, thanks so much! **

**And just to keep you all interested...an excerpt from chapter 8, which is set 15 years in the future:**

_"Our agent in New York hasn't responded for two weeks." Russia murmured, staring at the map on the table. He nibbled the pen in his hand thoughtfully, before crossing out the city. "We can assume that he has been discovered." Gently he capped the pen and placed it into his pocket, before looking up at England, who was standing in front of his desk, staring at the messy surface. "We only have three agents left in the East, and I do not doubt that if this keeps up they will be discovered within the next month."_

_England didn't look up, just kept staring. Russia frowned at the silent blond. "Well? What are you going to do about it?"_

_There was a long, heavy silence, before England finally spoke. And it was completely unrelated to the topic at hand. "Ivan…you know that there is only one thing keeping us from victory."_

_"Yes." He responded instantly, figuring that this random subject change had a point. "The Wall." He spat, fist curling on the table._

_England nodded, humming in his throat. "And the Dead Zone."_

_The Dead Zone wasn't a subject they often brought up. It was an area that stretched from the Mexican border to the Canadian border in a giant diagonal line of blackness. The Dead Zone was a mass of weapons and mines; it was suicide for either side to cross, which was why the two sides were so isolated from each other._

_Once Russia had seen a picture of the Dead Zone from a tiny flying camera; it was like a great big ugly scar that marred America's once lush, green land, and it made him feel sick. If the nation ever pulled out of this warlike state, it most likely would be a permanent testament to this horrible time._

_Russia was silent. _

_England seemed to realize that Russia wasn't going to respond, because he continued very quietly. "As you and I both know, there is no way to cross the Dead Zone without getting killed. There is no way to drive across it, no way to fly without getting shot down." The Englishman took a deep breath, and planted his hands on the desk, still not looking at Russia. _

_The blonde seemed to realize that England was staring at something—not just the desk, but something on the desk. He slowly walked over to look, eyes landing on the current map of the United States of America. It was just like any other map; the West—what their side was called—was split in two; Russia's side, and England's side (though they did work together, they had quickly learned they had different ways of taking care of their refugees), the big black line that was marked in pure white letters, the 'Dead Zone', and the East in vibrant red. _

_Except…there was a new mark on the map. A white line that Russia wouldn't have been able to spot if he hadn't been looking closely, marking a little slash through the very top of the Dead Zone, so close to the Wall it was almost touching. _

_"Do you trust me?" England said suddenly, finally turning to look at the taller nation._

_Russia stared at England, a frown on his face. "You are insane." He murmured, before he took a fortifying breath. "Yes. Always. You know this."_

_"I found a way around the mines." England said quietly, stroking the little white line with one finger. "It's obvious that neither side thought the other would be crazy enough to mine right next to the Wall. The wild electricity off the Wall would be enough to kill any normal human, but…" He smiled suddenly, eyes mischievous. "How would you like to take a little trip across the Dead Zone?"_

**Till next time, **

**IceEckos12**


End file.
